Margaret Clark
 
ON REALIZING THERE ARE TOO MANY POEMS
ABOUT ONIONS, PEARS, AND BRUEGHEL'S
PAINTINGS

While cutting an onion I am reminded of Brueghel,
the lack of tears in his art. Mine are everywhere, yet his 
paradise of dancers runs dry--too busy with the frenzy
of living--and even in The Triumph, the littered dying

do not weep--busy, in their own way, with the frenzy
of becoming dead. But I am still alone in the kitchen,
no orgiastic throng to advance my sullen mood as art;
there is time enough for me to cry. Who will stop me?

The pears ripening on the sill--bitter, mealy, and hard--
are making more of themselves, growing crisp and fresh
in the wan, white light of the world. Neutral, indifferent,
they cannot tell me what to do. So I think about layers

because they are there, because they are easy. Onions
cannot help being metaphors; they would rather stay
mysteries in the moist soil. They would rather I unwrap
myself. If I could, I tell them through the blur, I would.