Maybe Love Is More Like an Onionby Lana Hechtman Ayers
He says he loves me and keeps reading the sports section. I say to him, Passion is a budding rose. “Spring training is almost over,” he says. Green, guarded at first, then explosive—bursting, brilliant, sensual, perfumed. He turns a page. “Bruins are down to fifth in the division,” he says. Petals so soft, they make you cry, I say. Opening further, further. “That reminds me,” he says, “we need toilet paper.” The color fades, I say. “Then buy the white,” he says. The petals wrinkle, drop, leave just a shaft of thorns. He says, “Got to call my mother today.” I say, Compost.
From Love Is a Weed, Georgetown, Kentucky: Finishing Line Press, 2006, page 7. I’ve been pleased to curate the monthly SoulFood Poetry Night in Redmond, Washington with Lana Hechtman Ayers since July of 2006.
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