| Still Life with Onions Van Gogh ate his paint worked quickly and died he was so sloppy so hungry he couldn't wait to free his palette cover his canvases thick he couldn't wait for chrome-yellow love infinite night-sky blue to dry he had to lick his light fresh. as I cut onions into chunks— never delicate, translucent slices coming down hard at irregular angles gouging the board mixing wood splinters in I think about the unusual way I'm told I have with a knife. I bet Vincent tore into his bread left his teeth marks in wedges of cheese completely neglected on countless occasions to clean up after himself. and what's wrong with big chunks of onion? the savage charge of having to eat? eyes burning, tears streaming I see through it all— the last temptation of light. |