Onion Poem by Tony Kemp

Having planned the meal,
pre-heated the oven,
and prepared the ingredients,
he set about the cooking –

Not content
to have:

read my mail,
searched my room,
penetrated my soul,
invited strange
strangers
into the home,
my home –
he then proceeded
to belittle me before
friends,
my friends,
displaying my contents
before all.

Knowing I would crumble,
and would go to
swill my face
to hide the fact,
he had smeared a peeled onion
on the towel,
my towel,
and when the tears flowed,
uncontrolled,
I reached for it
to dab and dry,
but to no avail –
I dried,
and cried,
and dried,
and cried.