Clinging to your body like the scent
of onions you have cut is love.
You cannot peel it off and shove
away its skin, for like cement,
it hardens over time, and may
show cracks for which you aren’t prepared,
which sometimes have to be repaired
in order to prevent decay,
but even when it crumbles you
can still detect the scent with which
it first delighted you. A switch
to others alters how you view
the love, but it retains its smell
which can’t be changed, because it clings
to you, and sometimes even stings
like words that break a magic spell.
Inspired by a poem by the new British poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy:
Valentine
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
5/1/09
gershon hepner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clinging-like-the-scent-of-onions/
