Skins
There is no accord
no affinity the heart's
rough edge can't abrade,
can't peel away bit by bit; as a cook
unbuttons an onion, so I'm unwrapped to the
unbuttons an onion, so I'm unwrapped to the
raw, each lover leaving rubbing off a skin
a thin epidermal sheet clinging ragged,
rucked off his receding back as he runs,
already shedding my cells.
already shedding my cells.
I should be nothing by now
but the pearl scallion core
that holds the green sprout;
instead like injured flesh I puff
with a pushing fluid, salt and sere
against the naked pain of movement,
the scarlet inflammation of loss, sweating
out a vapor that pulls from the unwary eye
trickling peardrops of aggregated regret.
out a vapor that pulls from the unwary eye
trickling peardrops of aggregated regret.
A shame that having made my peace
with love, surrendered it up
with love, surrendered it up
so many times, it's still a cat I can't
call back, my wayward black spirit familiar.
Only its shades will come as they will,
its films of old sensation, soft
its films of old sensation, soft
memories crackling, cast off voices
crumpled as the papery skins of
a whittled onion.
a whittled onion.
June 2012
Posted for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub
Brian Miller is hosting today, and asks us to write about buttons in any shape or form or association.
Image: onion skin, by ultraBobban, on flick'r
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