I slice sentences to turn them into
onions. On this chopping board, they
seem more organised,
as if with a little effort
I could begin
to understand their shape.
At my back, the news is the same
as usual. A train
blown up, hostages taken.
Outside, in Pollokshields, the rain.
I go upstairs, come down.
I go to the kitchen. When things are in their place,
they look less difficult.
I cut and chop. I don’t need to see,
through onion tears,
my own hand power the knife.
Here is the food. I put it on the table.
The tablecloth is fine cutwork,
sent from home. Beneath it, Gaza
is a spreading watermark.
Here are the facts, fine
as onion rings.
The same ones can come chopped
or sliced.
Shoes, kitchens, onions can be left
behind, but at a price.
Knowledge is something you can choose
to give away,
but giving and taking leave a stain.
Who gave the gift of Palestine?
Cut this. Chop this,
this delicate thing
haloed in onion skin.
Your generosity turns my hands
to knives,
the tablecloth to fire.
