The Sacrificial Onion
Embryonic stillness waits its chance.
Motion concaves inward rounding the
circular language of an onion in a
metal basket.
Minutes and seconds seem to over exaggerate.
So I Taste in square cabinents. ..
salt, vinegar, rice wine.
Wrinkled preservation.
Dehydrated sensation..
Ive got little to look forward to and
even less to look back.
So i just stand and listen.
A little scripture salt in a cylinder
sounds out.
Tiny bones in the back of the ear vibrate.
maybe an old walnut chopping board
turns its scarred back.
maybe an onion unapologetically sheds
the sinues of its skin.
Dry tear ducts and basil leaves hang over
the stove as ceremonial witnesses.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2017
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