the onion

The first step is always the onion
That bulbous orb in thin brown paper
Rustling her skirts at you (that flirt!)
And you’re always so quick to peel off
Her clothes and discard them
Exposing her translucent transcencence
Her walls built up layer by layer
But with a swift strike of your blade
You cut through them all and parcel her up into
Tiny manageable pieces
That you can sweat down
You take your time with her
turn every inch over and over
Never letting her rest too long
until you melt her crisp white collar
into a sweet sticky mess
But she’s still hiding all the tears
she might have shed
And you’ll move on soon
to smother her with other ingredients
Until she’s forgotten
Like salt; wanted only when she’s missing