A poem I hold in my hands
Like an orange (or an onion)
I can't say
What do I know of analogies and metaphors!
As for the orange (or the onion)
I hand it over to you
To prod/ to peel/ to slice
To do with it whatever you like.
Half-way through the process
Of peeling layer by layer
The textured skin, a map of sorts
As the fruit (or the vegetable)
Starts to unravel in your careful hands
Starts to come undone at the seams
And you notice a prick
And the eventual welling of tears in your eyes
Sorry I gave you the onion
The pungent wretch of a thing
The orange, in its sweet, citrusy fragrance
Bustling with bottled sunlight
And tangy-sweet whispers of the earth's generous bounty
I reserved for someone else
Who might just toss it carelessly away (Like it doesn't mean a thing)
In search of a better fruit (or a vegetable)
Like I said
I know nothing of analogies anyway.