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Cooking with onions

  • Posted on January 12, 2013 at 3:05 pm

I’m cooking with onions.
Beneath its brown tissue,
unwrapping, smoothness, naked.

The inner skin is moist, and firm,
its curves reassuring to hold
around, down to the soft root mat.

The raw peeling is a tearing,
unlayering making its acid
reaction to my quick undressing—

or to the intimacy of the edge
that pares and parts and spaces,
destroying dignity for its strong taste.

But the pieces slide in hot virgin
as I ravish the soft sweet heart
pungent and raw and persistent.

I lost those smooth round curves,
the naked skin, moist root mat—
it all lies in pieces, after tears.

And since there are no tissues to hand
and there are no kisses to blend,
I’m cooking with onions. But eating the heart.

2013 © Andie Davidson

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Intent

  • Posted on December 30, 2012 at 6:51 pm

Of rain, relentless
memories drumming on my taut skin
running in gurgling rivulets, seeking
deep subterranean places
dark water, far beneath my groundsheet.

A turf-torn guy-rope
relic of a stormy past wound on itself,
spent, forgot, coiled without tension
white as a stripped nerve.

With intent I listen
there is no rhythm in the rain, no
reason or cónfine. I am choosing
storm-surviving, to hear my skin
streaming, streaming, streaming.

 

2012 © Andie Davidson

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Guts

  • Posted on December 30, 2012 at 6:42 pm

When the bearing down begins,
is this courage for the passing through—
or bravery for the inheritance of blood?

Or is it the terror of tearing,
expulsion of not belonging—
the urging to be freed?

And this presence in my belly,
this yearning to contain and hold—
does it not consider pain or wound?

Do not admire the episiotomy
any more than some placental pleasure—
birth is not courage. It’s guts.

 

2012 © Andie Davidson

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Christmas card

  • Posted on December 20, 2012 at 8:33 pm

I want this card filled.
I want it empty. Just my name.

A Christmas Valentine.
My heart. In a folded page.

    

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The price of simple things

  • Posted on December 15, 2012 at 10:57 am

However delicate this filigree
this silver, iron or gold –

however fine and beautiful this glass,
its colours making sunlight speak –

however fleet and bright this flute
edging silver in sibilant song –

you shall not see or feel the fire,
the furnace finding them from stone.

Their faces and voices all felt fair,
warm in a way their cold touch cannot tell

set from white heat, bled to life,
beaten, drawn and mastered

into taut treasures that tell
stories, songs and longings

of long, long ago. Ore and wonder
as old as their ancestral home.

Trauma and high energy are
the price of simple things

the rocks that make our hills,
crumbled, melted into light.

 

2011 © Andie Davidson

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