I give you an onion

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light like the careful undressing of love.

(These are lines from a Carol Ann Duffy poem that I love so much I asked one of my best friends to read it at my civil partnership. She did it so well. She brought an actual onion. I cried, even though she didn't chop it up.) 

Sometimes, I am too generous with my onions. I offer them to people who don't see their light. That's not always on them, my onions aren't for everyone, in fact onions qua onions aren't for everyone, and I am not always good at reading those signals. But I care about my onions, and all of their layers. When they are rejected it really hurts, and it can take me a very long time to deal with that. 

I have realised that my neighbours, collectively, don't know their onions, to the extent that, for whatever reason, they definitively don't want mine. 

This is the blog post of metaphor, the gentle announcing. I am taking my alliums elsewhere. 

The blog post of literal is in gestation. It's gonna slap. 

joella