Chopping Onions
When I was younger
chopping onions
never made me cry
Back then,
special contacts – hard and rigid
protected me
from the burn
Now I understand,
my eyes – naked and unshielded
how each slice stings
eliciting tears
As I grow older,
I chop them – more and more
as if craving
the unbidden emotion
it stirs
NOTE: For today’s poem, I followed a prompt from Christina Thatcher – Read ‘cutting greens’ by Lucille Clifton. Answer this question: What is on your chopping board? Carrots, watermelon, poverty, sexism?
Image borrowed from simplejacki

Love this. Certainly made me think.
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Thank you.
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