Easter
And I am doing my grocery and there are these onions,
calling to me boldly with their bright, purple bulbs,
multiple layers of skin, fresh and seemingly just risen
from the ground. There is something about the idea of peeling
one that reminds me of how certain things are meant to be
displayed, as the expected gloom and silence before Easter,
the cross promising eternal symbolisms. Funny to think
all this should be so normal: the burden of an onion in the hand,
the flesh, a grown man crying over the loss sometime
later, that divine force that drives man or god to surprise himself
with grand displays of emotion over a given vanishing.
Because it is Sunday once again, filled with new faith,
vegetables, common market duties, old grieving. And eggs.
