Tomato

My tongue tingles,

my teeth water,

my brain echoes their name.

Tomato. Tomato. Tomato.

Never will a taste be my last,

break of smooth, shiny skin

like a bubble bursting

to reveal true maturity as toxic femininity.

-

Grandmother picked them

from the Amish boy's stand while I crushed

on his bowl cut in knee-length shorts

mandated by my mother.

Flies buzzed by squash, and

breezes ruffled tent flaps, but

the tomatoes were glorious, plump gemstones

in that crop dust ocean.

His cheeks were river stones, his hands sandpaper,

but he handled Grandmother's picks

like babies' heads.

-

At the kitchen table, I melted when my teeth sank

through clouds of white bread and

carved cliff sides into processed cheese slices

and broke red fruit flesh,

sparkling with salt crystals.

Grandmother boasted her refreshment, but I

was too enamored with the taste of health to speak,

or breathe,

or remember the hands that grew them,

or held them,

or picked them,

or prayed over them.

-

Tomato. Tomato. Tomato.

My every old summer thought

and first star wish.

From crave-quenching fork crunch

to thirst-satisfying finger slurp.

From Jersey dining room salad to

Paris rooftop sweet pizza.

Forever my cheeks' porn,

my tastiest crush.

-

This poem was written in response to the Ode to Ordinary Challenge issued by Vocal: "Write an ode to an ordinary object."