You hide in the flesh of onions
the way hope hides in certain Superbowl commercials.
It’s not that I don’t expect you,
so why does it feel like an ambush when you,
chemical irritant released into air,
bring tears to my eyes and I stand there
at the kitchen counter weeping
over the cutting board,
weeping as if a lover died,
as if listening to cello,
as if I realize again there is so much suffering
in the world I cannot change.
You remind me it’s natural to cry—
that waterworks are hardwired into the eyes.
You teach me sometimes what nourishes us
also burns.
There are times when I’ve wondered
why we aren’t all weeping—
weeping for the lack of connection,
weeping for children who hunger,
weeping for love between friends
and the red of maple leaves—
it’s as if you give us permission,
prepare the pathways,
so that when at last we succumb
to our glorious humanity
we don’t try to hide it,
we don’t act as if it’s a problem,
we just stand in the center of the room
and let those hot tears
fall down our cheeks,
the salt sharp and hot on our tongues.