Red Onions

There is a man with his back

on a cold counter. Sweet sausage

grease in the air, his nose and cheeks.


She sings a song he’s never heard,

hacks thick steel through onions

red peppers and green.


He watches her neck bare, short hair,

pink spots where white shirt curves

up shoulder, skin the color of old pages.


Her naked feet splat upon the cold

cheap floor, and he walks, hard to hear

above the coffee black bubbles and chops.


Still, she senses his presence split seconds

before arms squeeze hips, ribs, rests

chin near a clavicle quite sharp.


Ow shave she laughs prickled

on her throat, his stiff whiskers digging in,

then cuts her short finger fairly deep.


Now the onion, dyed magenta,

looks ready for inspection

in a slide pinched between lenses.


He looks at the blood.