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The Onion Memory

by
 Divorced, but friends again at last,
we walk old ground together
in bright blue uncomplicated weather.
We laugh and pause to hack to bits these tiny dinosaurs, prehistoric, crenelated, cast between the tractor ruts in mud.
On the green, a junior Douglas Fairbanks, swinging on the chestnut's unlit chandelier, defies the corporation spears-- a single rank around the bole, rusty with blood.
Green, tacky phalluses curve up, romance A gust--the old flag blazes on its pole.
In the village bakery the pastry babies pass from milky slump to crusty cadaver, from crib to coffin--without palaver.
All's over in a flash, too silently.
.
.
Tonight the arum lilies fold back napkins monogrammed in gold, crisp and laundered fresh.
Those crustaceous gladioli, on the sly, reveal the crimson flower-flesh inside their emerald armor plate.
The uncooked herrings blink a tearful eye.
The candles palpitate.
The Oistrakhs bow and scrape in evening dress, on Emi-tape.
Outside the trees are bending over backwards to please the wind : the shining sword grass flattens on its belly.
The white-thorn's frillies offer no resistance.
In the fridge, a heart-shaped jelly strives to keep a sense of balance.
I slice up the onions.
You sew up a dress.
This is the quiet echo--flesh-- white muscle on white muscle, intimately folded skin, finished with a satin rustle.
One button only to undo, sewn up with shabby thread.
It is the onion, memory, that makes me cry.
Because there's everything and nothing to be said, the clock with hands held up before its face, stammers softly on, trying to complete a phrase-- while we, together and apart, repeat unfinished festures got by heart.
And afterwards, I blunder with the washing on the line-- headless torsos, faceless lovers, friends of mine.

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