Peeling Onions

i think of you while peeling onions on a Tuesday afternoon.

the bronze layer falls: the dress that fell 

to my knees, the night i became yours.

it is cold to the touch, the bulb, an aorta.

the knife slips against the edge of my palm and

i pierce the neck of the onion and burst each 

capillary with watery delight.

you made me lunch once, shaped the 

tomatoes into half-smirks

cut thick slabs of bread the color of my complexion. 

your mouth became my swimming pool

all blackboard dust and bed sheets

all empty baggage and open shells

washed to shore and left behind.

i think of you more than i should,

of the space between ur lips,

the gap between your 

neck and collarbone

the margins i filled with notes 

from the book you bought me,

the blanks in the words you left unsaid,

fine print – the language we spoke.

i’ve never liked space but you like it 

and i like you, even when i shouldn’t. 

and even when hours have passed and 

i have rinsed and scrubbed,

my hands still smell of onions