Thursday 14th April 2011 (A. Palmer)
Like Duffy’s onion-
comprised of many layers that,
whilst some made the dish
that little bit more appetising,
others would, at times, draw tears
I was scorned for out of guilt-,
she was an unorthodox gift to say the least.
Though sweet in places,
a bitter taste was often left
that wasn’t always easy to rid myself of.
Perhaps I didn’t want to though,
perhaps I became accustomed to it,
or persevered through a desire
to unravel her.
If it was the latter,
I’m not sure what I expected to find,
given onions untie to simply nothing:
no big reveal, no great prize, no heart.
it gave me something to do,
something to disappoint.
Indeed, when I think about it,
she was definitely an onion.
Some disagreed, whilst,
when it came to cooking,
the steam that radiated from us
was as potent as it was visible-
no need for the rosy cheeks
and strand of hair at the back
she missed to give the game away.
Even now, her scent still lingers
at every geographical point of my life,
whilst shreds of her moon litter my days.
Sure, I know I still cling to her memory
like she did to my fingers once.