Homegrown Tomatoes, poem by Jenifer Lee Wallace

First thing you notice is the col­or.
“Red” doesn’t do it jus­tice.
This shade only exists in Tech­ni­col­or.
They haunt my dreams in late Feb­ru­ary,
when a foot of snow cov­ers the ground.
Not ruby, not scar­let, not car­di­nal.
“Puls­ing red” because they beat
like hearts on my plate.

There are four left.
Last har­vest of the sea­son
sit­ting on the counter.
I won’t have the chance to taste them again
til next sum­mer.
The knife sings, ecsta­t­ic as it releas­es
nec­tar and haloed seeds.

First bite: rap­ture.
Sum­mer sun and rich soil
cre­at­ed vine-ripened ecsta­sy.
Sweet­ness of refresh­ing rains,

respite from 100 heat,
adds a grace note to the aria
burst­ing as I chew.
Far too soon, all that’s left
is juice.
I raise the plate to my mouth and drink.

Jenifer Lee Wal­lace is a writer and poet from St. Louis, with fam­i­ly roots in the farm­land of south­east Mis­souri.
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One Response to Homegrown Tomatoes, poem by Jenifer Lee Wallace

  1. ultrabrown says:

    A beau­ti­ful and sen­su­ous work, Ms. Wal­lace cap­tures the vis­cer­al plea­sure of humid sum­mer nights and the fruits of the day's heat.

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