Joy

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.