Valentine
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
Notes
Li-Young Lee's A Story finds the fear of loss in a father's love for his son; Carol Ann Duffy's Valentine brings that same vulnerability into romantic love, replacing the familiar roses and hearts with an onion. Its layers, sharp scent, and capacity to bring tears make love feel less like an ideal and more like something we must learn to live with. We often fall in love with an image of another person, imagining a closeness that will remain untouched by time or disappointment. Duffy's onion unsettles that fantasy. Each layer reveals another complication, and the intimacy we desire carries its own possibilities of jealousy, possession, and pain. Even the things we hold closest can wound us. October's decay finds its way into love through this ordinary vegetable, whose sweetness and sharpness belong to the same flesh. As its layers are peeled away, we begin to see how affection changes under the weight of time, and how even the most tender promises can leave a lasting sting. #CarolAnnDuffy #Valentine #Decay #LovePoetry #relationships