Maybe Love Is More Like an Onion

      by 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.