of love and aromatics

my husband has no nose for onions. 

the aroma breaches his skull, rattles around, 

wrestles with his equilibrium. his stomach 

retches at just a whiff. 

so, I take great care, 

slice and pile other vegetables first, 

preparing them for the high dive

to blend and gurgle into cabbage soup. 

I brace for the final ingredient, light candles,

cast open windows, blast the overhead fan,

shield our eyes from the flaming vapor 

but still, it fills the room. 

my skin

blooms under the hand of hives

when Kentucky bluegrass sneaks inside,

so, my husband hermetically seals the house, 

dons coarse jeans and ample gloves 

before working the turf, then studiously strips 

offending bits from boots and hazmat suit, 

ejects stow-aways from his curls and rusted beard.

clippings, still, follow him in.

even with heedful hands

a stomach may turn

and skin may itch,

but we decide

which measure to take.