I watch them lose water and shrivel, lose colour, lose a couplet’s sting, lose secrets, lose dusk. I remind myself that they’re dying – curved, nail-like julienned onions, tiny twigs crawling on a frying pan. Oil tickles the back of the onion slivers, they crumple into ancestral shapes of escape – broken wings; a half-grasp; collapsed joints. Once pink procession, now broken barbed wire. Death is such a spendthrift. Of everything, this most precious – the release from the burden of form, of slivers becoming thread; life is too hard. An onion’s arcs, its whorls, its caves – the weight of form: water’s invisible scaffolding. Then, this boneless rest – death changes everything, including handwriting. Inside my mouth caramelised onions, the obscene sweetness of death – as if death were a fruit that’s ripened from waiting.
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