Bonnie Naradzay
	Red Onion 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 it’s 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.