Domestic PieceLucy Biederman
The onion is high and small tonight. On its night-platter it smudges its glow as if from behind a scrim. It is white as something scrubbed out by accident. Do you know why it’s so roundish and remote? Because it’s always turning itself in as it turns away. It’s on its way out perpetually, even when it’s slung low and present as a Best Buy, inviting direct address, investigation, inquiry. But never really. Its shorted-out trails betray frailty: They’re meant for no one to trace. The moon is for your dinner. It fell into rings under my knife too easily— I suspect that it’s been making trouble with pieces of our house behind our eyes but it divulges nothing. It is dry and juicy at once, and goes from bitter to sweet in a flash of heat, like no delicacy would. Its inner layers are sealed contracts of outer, outer backing up against itself, facing out. In its dominion, gray, yellow, and blue make a heart- of-palm-colored white, opaque as a fist. On this planet there’s too little air for us. We are lit but barely by the onion’s light, and our mooncakes offer little sustenance.
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