Monday, April 30, 2007

Onion

Katha Pollitt (b. 1949)

The smoothness of onions infuriates him
so like the skin of women or their expensive clothes
and the striptease of onions, which is also a disappearing act.
He says he is searching for the ultimate nakedness
but when he finds that thin green seed
that negligible sprout of a heart
we could have told him he'd be disappointed.
Meanwhile the onion has been hacked to bits
and he's weeping in the kitchen most unromantic tears.





1 comment:

Unknown said...

A man I was in love with in the 90's would recite this poem to me. I have never forgotten it. It's beautifully poignant.