“In other words, still not wonderful enough.” ~ Luisa A. Igloria, “By Hand“
Cutting onions, the slivered rings slip
and slide against each other, stacked awry,
remembering briefly they were once nipped
in close, nested together as if (eye
to eye) they merged & were one thing. That was
then, this is now, with a crooked house vibe
going on, a lopsided ziggurat once
turned into hanging gardens (carved by tribes,
then stacked), rice paddies falling into hills.
The mushrooms were frozen, long past the days
when they could recall basking in the thrill
of buttered heat, limp with lust/fear. A haze
of blood’s a garnet scrying glass; chicken
hearts simmer in oil, the brown froth thickens.