an onion

fragments
from layers
of an onion
piled on the counter-top
you with your knife
and your tears.
i focus intently
on the curve of your
spine and how it reacts
as i sputter and whine
in curt response
to sour accusations
like the knife's edge.
the pungent air
has less to do now
with the onion,
our exchanges heavy
on our faces
as we turn to
more urgent affairs,
the smell of our fears
sharp and poignant.