The onion

The onion waits there on the counter
I don't particularly want to peel it
But what is a meal without the depth of an onion
And a little garlic?

Under its crisp amber outer jacket,
The next layer is still part paper, part digestible,
Beneath that is the first full layer of
Wholly pregnant, pungent succulence

Beyond each convex sheet the membrane clings
And corked below the membrane the gas
That springs up, startling tears from my eyes
There are various methods for avoiding this

A piece of bread, clenched between the teeth,
Or potato, turning the head away,
Wearing rose-colored glasses,
In the end

The layers still wait to be pulled back to reach —
I remind myself — the increasingly sweet, juicy interior
Layer by layer, tear by tear, there is a reward
I think I've avoided this onion all my life


Onion image found at UCLA.