Onion is the only thing I want to eat.
My great uncle ate raw onion dipped in sugar for lunch.
When my tears are meant for my ancestors,
I’m more Lebanese than Michigander.
My tears taste like red onion saltwater.
I lick them from my hands, a favorite meal.
A meal I’ve shared with my sister before in a pillow fort.
She cooked more often than me.
I always did the dishes in the evening once the sun set.
It is easier to focus on the moon crest out the kitchen window.
I prefer the light of the moon to other forms of far light.
If light must be distant let it be moonlight.
Flashlights in the coat closet.
Shadow puppets across a backlit wall.
We were static after rubbing ears with withering minks.
We were learning to curate our own culture.