The Onion

How do you capture
the scent of a robe
woven with onions,
lavender,
and long days;
days you spent
complaining about the scent of
onion
on a spoon;
while sipping berries:
Mercurochrome red,
mixed with roses
and pines;
while brushing off fingers,
darkened with juices,
staining the sides of your cheeks?

When you spot the fingers:
skin migrating, flesh bare.
Same cheeks tighten,
eyes recoil,
“filth”.

Yet, on the table,
after the third
serving,
“Is that an onion?”
“Bah”.
Till one day,
the lavender gone,
and a plate next to a spoon
where an onion sits
unhinged.