As the water sloshes in the background,
I think of words that flow and make
worlds; turn into wide icy pools
and take the shape of everything.
Teal coloured, casting reflections
on my ceiling. The sun glints.
The fire readies the pan.
Two teaspoons of oil simmer.
Metal clinks against metal,
spices effuse woody medicines
chiming against the curvature
of an aluminium kadaai.
Half an onion, thinly sliced
fall in crescents. Soften first.
Curl later when they're fried.
Perhaps that's what happens to me.
Cut me to size and throw me into
the burning oil. I may soften
and turn sweet. That's my strength,
and yours too.
Burn me more,
and both of us
shall be our
B I T T E R selves.
Today is Day 27/100 in my 100-day writing project. If you enjoyed my poem about sliced onions, buy me a few books, or coffees, or anything you please. Thanks for reading!