Onions [prose poem]

    Research output: Textual Creative WorksOther contribution


    We took hundreds of photos but the house would not belong. Lazily it fell across the hillside like a lounging dog and would not acknowledge us. Nights of sleepless talk, days of struggling on stony roads and pebbly ground. But we bought small, sweet onions, making a pie. Dark-crusted in the dish it was a key to the house, expanding its rooms. We learned the lie of a concave sofa, stopped quizzing the cold; our bones began to warm. Hilly ground held trails we gradually recognised. Autumn fell on the place; we felt the season between toes. You said it was a miracle—onions, baking, washing, digging, walking the rounds. Feet on earth, words like bladed tools. You picked up a head of purplish broccoli. And this, you said, beauty that sits in the hand.
    Original languageEnglish
    TypeProse poem
    Media of outputPrint journal
    PublisherThe Kenyon Review
    Number of pages1
    Place of PublicationUnited States
    Publication statusPublished - 2017

    Publication series

    NameThe Kenyon Review (US)
    ISSN (Print)0163-075X


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