Onion, fruit of grace,
you swell in the garden
hidden as the heart of God,
but you are not about religion.
Onion, frying into all those Os,
you are a perfect poet,
and you are not about that.
Onion, I love you,
you sleek, auburn beauty,
you break my heart though
I know you don’t mean
to make me cry.
Peeling your paper skin,
I cry. Chopping you,
I cry. Slicing off
your wiry roots,
I cry like a penitent
at communion, onion.
Tasting grace, layer by layer,
I eat your sweet heart
that burns like the Savior’s.
The sun crust you pull on
while you’re still underground,
I’ve peeled it.
Onion, I’m eating
God’s tears.
Poem: “Onion, Fruit of Grace” by Julia Kasdorf from Eve’s Striptease. © University of Pittsburg Press
