Like Whitman,
I contain multitudes.
But mine are not powdery or sweet
like Atlas’s wings or mango trees.
No, mine are acrid,
watery things-
pungent and papery as
onion skin.
Each layer staining
prying hands, turning
pillowy digits into
jellyfish strands-
eye-sappingly dangerous.
In moderation, they can be delicious
if caramelized or flash-fried
into carb-crammed,
oil-slick dishes.
But their sharp scent lingers,
tickles pallets, triggers
bitter reflux that coins
of calcium must flush.
At my center
sits a sage shoot,
dewed and fresh
as pond grass.
A heart that remains mystery,
for my allium wrappings
leave me tossed
into the compost
before anyone reaches
deep green.
pm poetry 