All our tomatoes are picked. Some are cooking on the wood stove as I write this. Here’s a poem I wrote a couple of years ago and just edited a bit. Let me know what you think!
Suite for Tomatoes
Glass and silver protect
salt hidden in my grandmother’s shirt pocketshe strolls past the urgent asparagus spears
to the staked yellow pear tomatoes
glowing in late July sun
She plucks three, licks one, shakes salt so
it sticks, chews slowly
bends down, holds one out to me
says, lick, sprinkles salt
I bite, chew, slow like her
skin, flesh, juice
In our city apartment, mom
opened cans, poured their red
tomatoes into dented saucepan
added rips of bread
quick lunch, cheap
my tongue tasted sugar, reward, dessert
World traveler from south america
into mexico to europe to world
impossible to count its varieties
poison some thought
centuries ago, seeing the plant’s
family resemblance to deadly nightshade,
others rejecting its lascivious lobes–
breasts, buttocks, balls
Today I’ll slice the red orbs, splay
on platter, sluice with olive oil,
add coarse salt, ground pepper,
basil leaves
Yield of our garden
Yield of centuries
