I don’t have the answer
other than to explain, using
yet another metaphor we poets
are so fond of using when
we can’t explain the inexplicable.

It’s like peeling back layers
of onions, seeking the truth
to unlock mysteries even
a skeleton key can’t answer

and peeling onions is stinky
work. My eyes fill with tears
stinging from stench, I cut
my finger, blood clots under
paper towel, a gift you don’t
know you have until you have

a son whose blood doesn’t clot.
Hemophiliac child is no joke
to a mom who wants to write
a poem that makes you laugh,
yet I’m failing since none
of this is funny except for tone
of irreverence only a survivor

can adopt yet who isn’t a survivor?
The dead, I tell you. Those who
die don’t survive to write a poem
intending to elicit laughs I still
won’t hear from the audience

so let’s return to that onion, a
yellow onion I choose from mesh
bag, testing its firmness, cutting
first, each end, then down the center
to peel back brown layers that
aren’t even yellow before I dice
the way I watch chefs on videos
with knife skills I don’t have. Remember?

I told you I bled but it’s not so bad
I require stitches. Just a basic paper
towel, not even a band-aid because
now that my son is grown and flown
the nest, who the fuck knows
where I keep band-aids?

Task at hand, each layer
peeled enough to reach sweet
core, reward for getting that far
but I wish I could say peeling
back the layers of my childhood
only elicited a small cut on a finger
and the skeleton key is enough to
lock away memories I still have
to push away, even at my age and
let me tell you, my bones creaking
are enough evidence I’m getting old.

I wish I was mature enough to forgive
but the truth is bitterness and hatred,
contempt and anger are left in the wake
of a break-up I suffered months ago,
even though I remind myself what happened
in the past, even one day in the past is as much
the past as years ago and the onion isn’t sweet
enough to staunch the blood and stop the tears
but poems are enough to write instead.