Kali In An Onion

I heft the white onion in my right hand;
the sunlight slanting through the window
caresses it, brings a glow to this smooth moon.
In my left hand I grasp a knife, blade glinting;
as homage to mother Kali, I split the globe.
Peeling off the outer layer, a husk of secrets;
vulnerable, the cloven orb rests passively.
Again I lift the knife, slicing, chopping,
breaking integrity of form into mosaic
pieces, a small supernova of pungency.
My eyes weep, observing the demise of
unity, while my heart trills with joy.
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