and think of skin
pale and open
and wanting, like yours.
Mine the color of cherries
languid and sea-varnished.
Its thin veneer heals
each night like Prometheus,
his eagle greets me again
at dawn with a talon tear.
I peel the garlic
the static crackle
recalls your savage wail
roaring mythical
like a beast
cut down, chained
and haunted, your fire
doused in grief,
even lemons can’t hide
the coppery smell
the cindered flesh.
I peel the garlic
the papery petals scratch
tear like stridulous insects,
cocoon casings upturned
panicked paper boats
uncertain of rescue.
Garlic is an ancient and bulbous vegetable.
Allium flower, sweet and seductive
It won’t grow separated for long.
leaves me leery of the deep roots.
Its lantern skin is
crawling with them.
I peel the garlic
make little knife wounds
before sprinkling the salt.
Written by:
Linda Laino is an artist, writer, and teacher who has been making art in one form or another for over 35 years. Holding an MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University, she enjoys playing with words as much as form and color. Since 2012, she has resided in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico where the surreal atmosphere and sensuous colors have wormed their way into her paintings. The last few years have found her making art at residencies around the world, most recently in Spain and France. Finding beautiful things on the ground is a favorite pastime. Her art can be seen at www. lindalaino.com. Some of her essays and poetry can be found on The New Engagement, Sheila-Na-Gig Journal (nominated for a Pushcart Prize), Sonder Midwest, 82 Review, Writer Advice, Life In 10 Minutes and her blog, wordsandpictures.lindalaino.com.
