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.
Author Discusses Poems