Darjeeling Tea-Leaves

Standing before the round table,

She peels a red onion

Tingling with a rose-healthy glow

As if the young flesh had been plunged into icy water

With a small bony knife.

Then as the translucent spirals fall

Into a bowl anointed with virgin olive oil and vinegar,

The dusky wells of her eyes fill with tears

As if Nature transmits to her a hidden grief

Inherent in organic things.

Yet irresistibly she picks a thin slice

As gamblers or alcoholics cannot resist what bites them

And places it on her tongue

Which if sometimes slippery as an eel with words

Firmly balances an onion ring.

And when it descends her throat

A glow spreads through her inner being

Such as the Greeks might have felt

When savouring the fresh words of Plato and Sophocles

In the crystal salty blue of the Aegean Sea.

As if the stinging rawness of the red onion,

Its bracing, exhilarating truths

Rip the tissues of her soul.

And the clean, scouring sense of absolution

Flowing through her fine-boned, lissome body

Parallels the sense of catharsis

The devout feel at Confession

In a country church pierced by the Crucifix.

And when the onions rings acquire a golden hue

In the singing oil of a saucepan on the stove

A different sensation warms, glows

That brings erring husbands and prodigal sons

To the wholeness of kitchen and home.