Sulfur and sweetness, relish and bite:
you know it’s that good when you cry
from pleasure. Light a single votive
as you chop and mince: it helps to muffle
tears. The husk is a paper tunic, a skin
to wear like another language—
like the woman in Oregon who woke
from dental surgery surprised,
speaking with a foreign accent.
It means the house for what we think
we know is made of swirly layers—
see all those rings that fall away
on the cutting block when you
slice crosswise through? I like to think
that everything we’ve touched,
touches back; and vice versa.
See how a bug has left a red
swelling between my knuckles—
I’ll put some salve on it
until it subsides; then finger this
new site of rescue absently for days.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.