Sandy Wang

Onion

This is not about how she makes me cry. It's not even

about the tender heart, tied to a secret, hidden beneath her

white organza dress, unattainable despite my teary efforts. You see—this is about

her coming to ripeness in my garden, a full moon rising to the high throne. Indubitably she is

the queen's picking, fattened virgin bulb, green stalks soon to flower. Overnight,

poignantly and nervously, she drags her robe of white mist in slow waltz, my sweet deb.

Come daybreak I will have to take her out of her loam-perfumed boudoir, and marry her off to the gentle

yellow bell pepper.