Onion Rant

By Eleanor Fordyce

I hate onions.
Ubiquitous bulbs
of layered stealth,
souped and stewed
fricasséd and fried,
their stink has cullen-skinked the world.

I hate onions.
They lurk, raw and sliced,
under innocent leaves,
infiltrating, insinuating
their pungent breath,
intimidating the whole plate.

I hate onions.
Ingin Johnny arrived on a bike.
Strange man in a beret,
'Bonjour. Fit like.'
Ingins as big as fitbaas,
hingin doon in raas.
Made intae skirlie an stovies -

I hate onions.
They spring up unannounced,
bulbous and bunched
on the side of the plate.
I shudder to hear them crunched.
They are my Room 101.

I hate onions.
They make you cry
tears, far removed from
the emotion of the day.
As if you care when their
outer shells are peeled away,
their flesh chopped and diced.

He loves onions.
'Grounds for divorce,' he says.
But he is a masterchef
of concealment, sneaks them
in when he can. He is a man
who has suffered, been deprived.
Yet for me, is prepared to exist,