The Crinkle of Preservation

The onion’s half-dead on the cutting board,

so I reach for the roll under the sink.

I pull the tab, a silver, metallic chord

that makes a sound that forces me to blink.

It’s too loud for a Tuesday. The foil tears

in a jagged, serrated, useless arc.

It sets my teeth on edge; it actually wears

a hole in the quiet. A sudden, bright spark

of reflection hits the tile. I see my face

distorted in the crinkle of the sheet,

a silver monster in a tiny space

who can’t even wrap a vegetable neat.

I press the metal down, I mold the skin

around the pungent, white, and papery bulb.

I’m sealing all the sharp, sour odors in

with a material that’s difficult to curb.