Just brought home
from the market of August
the tomatoes take the seat of a queen
in their own bowl on the table.
These are not nice, quiet tomatoes.
Since they left their brown bag,
they have moaned my name,
haunting the house crevice-deep.
I thought eating the tomatoes
would silence them,
but the firm flesh on my tongue
resonates, dissolves the layers of my life,
and here I am a child
standing in the backyard garden
where tomato vines entwine wildly,
curling above my head,
and close to my cheek
hangs the ripe fruit.
I stare at this perfect red tomato
and I know I must pluck it,
take it home.
When my fingers can’t loosen
the tomato’s stubborn green stem
and the leafy tickle becomes unbearable,
I dig my white sneakers deep into the soil,
cock my face in a reach
and bite through the juicy flesh,
letting seeds run down my chin,
letting red cover the front
of a blue plaid sundress.
