My father sliced the onion
in two, and we sat, each lifting

our half-moon. He took a bite,
then another—as though

it was fruit—tasting the raw
sting of it, that temper

of white flesh, the car then
full of heat and ozone.

And now a little stilton, he said,
smiling at me, doubling

down on the odor. The sea
stretched out in front of us.

Afterwards, he dozed, the car
windows slowly glazing

as I walked the edges
of the cliff, young still, the aftertaste

of what we’d eaten, its sharpness
living on my breath.