How to Dice an Onion
There is a particular way you must dice an onion
so its layers don’t crumble one hundred ways apart —
when I dice an onion, prisms of stink and skin scatter
one hundred ways apart and I try to do it right and —
you can write about onions. The dicing makes you cry.
The smell makes you stink, and there, on your tongue,
everything tastes like more with a heap of onion, no?
No, there’s something about a man who cooks. His
tragedy-mask face, how he wants you to believe that
you’re the only one — the only anything. He says, this
is how you dice an onion. Rolls up his sleeves, exposes
a pink delta of oven blister spiraling from wrist to elbow.
And a man who cooks tells me, sage is for poultry, not
to cleanse the odor of the dead or to chase out ghosts
Well, I never knew. I never thought, just toss it with chicken
and my one-hundred-shaped pieces of wrongly diced onion —
Rax King is a queer Virgo poet who has the great fortune to work with dogs. She can be found on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook as @raxkingisdead, where she tells a lot of jokes that don’t really land and also some that do. She’s been recently published in Voicemail Poems, Be About It, and Zoomoozophone Review but her most important publication credit came in the second grade when she wrote a poem about farting for her elementary school newsletter.