The Onion

This came from a poetry prompt back when I was in high school. One of my favorite prompts.

The Onion
by Regina K. Pride

I know he is kerosene and
unused telephone numbers useless
to memory,
I’ve seen his bony ankles
step out of sewer drains
traveling to get Anywhere, USA.

But for a moment, my eyes see
no rot.

His green flesh is glossy like an oil slick.

Then, I look at its edges; feel
its seemingly firm texture.

The outside is flaky,
old flesh. Once chopped in half
collapsed veins are exposed;
miles of expiring intestines
take root in its stem.
My finger slips off the edge,
following a path down one of the lines
wet like dew hanging off blades of green wet,
 wet like slime and grime wet,
a dry wet.

I bite into the safe side
of his cushioned onion
whose whites glow
even in the light.

Like the women he’d dismantled before,
tearing at the gloved rounds
his hair, dead skin, and sweet musk
left on their lips,
I watch his half
turn to mushed apple
and Japanese cooling fans
as he flees to the next town.