Foodie

New poem in progress. It's been a while since I've written and am not sure where to take this.

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A onion is slit in half, a line marked down the body

and anxiety permeates beyond the lamentation of when skin

is peeled back. A crunchy release

and an excuse for public tears is subsumed

by conversation across the kitchen threshold

and the flickered drone of a hunchbacked television

distended with cathode ray tubes.

A carrot is scored, a notch wedged for each tear

that reluctantly escaped across a moundful cheek, while

the garlic retreat onto the porcelain floor,

in cognito as calla lilies, though unable to flee their pungency,

and decline to be dominated by a thick-edged cleaver

employed by a heavy handed heart.

A nose rises and falls, drips and drams, above a bubbling pot

and loneliness is prepared for consumption.

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Where to now?