Left to ripen underground, it secretly builds transparent striations
of skin upon skin, each silky-thin, then swells to a purple-red globe,
bulging, tinged with brown, packed tight in the papery casing, caked
with dirt, a fringe of dried root underneath, but clean inside, a tincture
that clings to the knife, stings eyes, sinks into fingers. Unlike the lotus,
the onion cannot unfold; no, one must slice through the dripping pink
nacreous heart of it. Then its a metaphor, as in: there are too many layers
to peel back, to heal, for our relationship to survive; it must end.
In AA they believe that separating the onion reveals the layers of truth
within. On this level of the onion, I am crying.