540 Readings

Tomato Song for Tenor

Though I admire your commitment
to the metaphor of gardening,
immediacy demands one store-bought.

Sliced and cheek-salted,
it will tip, spilling
valuable varnish. Its odor
balloons us skyward, such that we
vocalize. We ponder theft.

Oh! to regard again
and to be regarded
as curious specimens!

It is not as though we are
without ritual; as though
without ritual, we’d be
a bruteless race!

How I redden and yearn
to be attended to, and to
attend to!

My feet are soiled, prophylaxis
against this record-smashing
heat: an oppressive, wet curtain
you may part, if gloved.

Shedding blooms in fear of
thoughtless comparisons,
I do not choose to spit; merely
to romanticize loss
and body dysmorphia.

Ah! those who craft for love:
it is not enough. One must plant
marigolds. If you admire
her strength, do not whisper
to her vine-bound compatriot.
Write her back.

Posted 07/27/11
for M and S
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