Monday, April 28, 2014

Good Cry

What else to call it? Peel
each layer of onion
to get to the center eye,
and it’s your vision that blears.
Tears trill down pouched lids,
all of it stinging and still. Squint hard
at the proof of your doggedness,
the way it fills the sink with husks--each one
slippery with juice, identical to the others--
unlike your own skin,
holding in its factories,
your wrist pulsing blue, your chambered heart
beating everywhere at once.

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