Still-life with Onions
There is the whiteness of the curtain. There is the curving whiteness
of the bathtub’s rim
where someone is sitting. The white bowl of onions at the kitchen
windowsill, it catches
the streetlight when everyone else is asleep. And the whiteness
of paper, listening. And the disquieting
white interior of worry, layered & involuted, like the acrid center
of an onion. There’s the white
flurry of her thoughts as each tiny word circles down to clump like snow.
A tinny clinking music.
Carolina Ebeid grew up in NJ, and now lives in Austin where she is a fellow at the Michener Center for Writers. Her poems appear widely in journals such as West Branch, Poetry, and Anti- . She is the poetry editor for the Bat City Review, and a CantoMundo fellow.