Certain, by Jack Underwood

8 December 2013

Nothing before had seemed so potent
and self-contained –
surely the onion was beautiful.

Its hung cloud of acid worked
in his nose and throat
as the knife bisected

like a maker of names passing
between twins, calling one half Perfect
the other also Perfect.

[Read in The Salt Book of Younger Poets. Ripped from Glits-e.]

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