Elements

After John Thompson’s “The Onion”

by Erin Vosters

He is toasting spices, tawny cumin 

browning in the cast iron pan

seasoned weekly in his attention,

and the air is hot with it. Windows 

open, fan on, each breath 

burning at the heart of me.

Sometimes I have to walk out, sit

on the cool concrete front step, breathe

the empty evening before I steep again

in the curried air. With the knife blade flat, he cracks

into cloves of garlic, and their isotopes

light the main floor, a bright rush of scent.How hot

should I make this?The smell is not just smell but

presence, atmosphere, and we

are alone in it.In the emerald living room, I sit

and look through to the kitchen.His neck

bends over the cutting board, an onion

comes apart, his eyes strain

open