in the slip between the paring knife and the onion skin,
enfold thumb beneath the soft scales and lay the
sleek and hot,
a lopsided globe of sweet bite
layers folded by a sun not yours
plucked and scrubbed by fingers not
spawned by a thousand-headed seed
and you feel like you’ve done
from a yield not yours.
from a produce not yours,
a gift not yours
Do you ever wonder about who labored over the food you’re eating?
And if Pablo Neruda can write a poem about onions, so can I.