Onions [prose poem]

Research output: Textual Creative WorksOther contribution

Abstract

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)
No.2
Volume39
ISSN (Print)0163-075X

Fingerprint

Trails
Dog
Night
Roads
Prose Poem
Cold
Sofa
Washing

Cite this

HETHERINGTON, P. (2017). Onions [prose poem]. United States: The Kenyon Review.
HETHERINGTON, Paul. / Onions [prose poem]. 2017. United States : The Kenyon Review. 1 p. (The Kenyon Review (US); 2).
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HETHERINGTON, P 2017, Onions [prose poem]. The Kenyon Review, United States.

Onions [prose poem]. / HETHERINGTON, Paul.

1 p. United States : The Kenyon Review. 2017, Prose poem. (The Kenyon Review (US); Vol. 39, No. 2).

Research output: Textual Creative WorksOther contribution

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