Eating pickled onions
by the jar
shut behind doors
that only open inwards.
Strange how children become
accustomed to
strangers at home,
whispered intimacies,
an extra button
undone
on mother’s blouse.
Father never brought
work home.
Nights on the tiles
hid his infidelities.
Six and half a dozen
I’m eating onions
they bring tears to my eyes.
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