Chopped

She chops onions
to cry.
which leads her to the kitchen
a lot.
he doesn't understand why
she has become so obsessed
with Indian food

Masala, cumin, fennel, anise, coriander
exotic smells cling to her,
get stuck in her hair
like cigarette smoke
after a night in a dive bar
that ignores the ban.

She chops onions to cry.
Lately fixated on red ones
sometimes alternating to juicy yellows
when he's at work.

she chops in front of romantic comedies
tears hot against her skin
eyes and lips swell
turning a shade of chicken tikka red

the salt
reminds her of the boardwalk
knishes, pistachio ice cream
and the froth of an angry ocean

she's lost feeling somewhere
like change in the cracks of a couch
She crops onions to cry.