I Peel The Garlic
I Peel The Garlic
and think of skin
pale and open
and wanting, like yours.
Mine the color of cherries
languid and sea-varnished.
Its thin veneer heals
each night like Prometheus,
his eagle greets me again
at dawn with a talon tear.
I peel the garlic
the static crackle
recalls your savage wail
roaring mythical
like a beast
cut down, chained
and haunted your fire
doused in grief,
even lemons can’t hide
the coppery smell
the cindered flesh.
I peel the garlic
the papery petals scratch,
tear like stridulous insects
cocoon casings upturned
panicked paper boats
uncertain of rescue.
Garlic is an ancient and bulbous vegetable.
Allium flower sweet and seductive,
It won’t grow separated for long.
leaves me leery of the deep roots.
Its lantern skin is
crawling with them.
I peel the garlic
make little knife wounds
before sprinkling the salt.
This poem was first published, winning first place in the annual poetry contest by The University of Houston’s “Glass Mountain” journal, volume #24, spring, 2020.
