Peeling an Onion

This extraordinarily self-centered
form on the outside seems
modest enough:  a brown, dry, thin,
            easily broken, vulnerable coat
            which is nevertheless as good
            as tree bark at protecting
and preserving what’s going on
(and on) inside.  If you hold it
and, with a knife, begin
            scraping away, you discover
            a pale, firm handful still bearing
            scars on its opposing
seamless hemispheres
where the roots and stalks
fulfilled their promises,
           then disappeared.  If you cut now
           and peel and keep taking away
           layers and unpredictable fragments
of layers that may be turning
inside out, retesting the terms
of solid geometry,
           if you keep on peeling past
           where a thrifty cook would have stopped,
           you’ll find an untouched, almost
untouchable whiteness more certain
of itself and its meaning than what lies
under these very words, a slippery
           pearl easily mishandled
           and no more tasteful than the debris
           surrounding it (thanks to you)
on the chopping block, and you’re left
with only a metaphoric
whiff of an exit line.