Lilies and Onions
They’re of the same ilk,
the golden-haired child and the black sheep
who parted ways after adolescence,
who deliberately forget to send Christmas cards.
One decided in favour of pungency.
A source of dutiful tears
Breaded and deep fried with ketchup
Relegated to the cold cellar
To Saturday afternoon barbeques
To thick, alkaline wedges among lettuce leaves
To hang on a lover’s breath
and in the kitchen curtains.
The other made only carefully-calculated public appearances
Freckled, but majestic
Sensual orange and scarlet
Bowing before blushing brides
Spreading lacy fingers among trellises.
One should be so lucky
as to be appreciated layer by layer
to have world’s beneath one’s skin
to be devoured to one’s core.
Fools, we dream of expounding our importance.
Petal by frivolous petal,
we trade stoutness and semi-permanence
for two weeks of frantic glow.
Copyright Amy Leask 2021