Girls and Their Onions

Small town, broken window houses dead roses hang in kitchens leftovers of other women who eat beef in dark rooms. We are not like them. Don't touch us, not ready. Our oven mitts are on. Men can knob themselves while we grind knives. We don't want to be under the pale man who puts his spoon in his cheek and moans. We are good girls. No need to explain why roses hang stiff and feel soggy. How many licks will it take before we peel off our panties like we strip onions for soup. Men can guess, but dampness is not a sign. Liquids leak when the onion is hacked, breaking cells and releasing a distinctive odor on tips.