women are the ones who
make the onions weep
as if they´ve peeled their own lives
and discovered, while becoming rounder,
one body, their body
one life, their life,
and yet this was nothing
they could truly call their own
or perhaps they could, but merely
that drop of water that speckled
a corner of their aprons where
a colourful cloth flower had budded, a flower
that wasn’t burning there just the day before