No Simple Stories

I’m learning that there are no simple stories,

but each one is like layers of mattresses, stacked to the ceiling. We pull

off one, then another, then another, then another

and finally, maybe at the very bottom

there is a single pea.

There are no simple stories,

but one Russian doll, nested inside another, nested inside another

until finally, with a magnifying glass and tweezer

the last doll is revealed, with an atom

of ash on its cheek.

There are no simple stories

as anyone peeling an onion can tell you,

carefully pulling back the paper skin

and layer by layer working your way down

to more onion.

Today is all about those onions, those tears.