Little bastards of vine. <br />Little demons by the pint. <br />Red eggs that never hatch, <br />just collapse and rot. When <br /> <br />my mom told me to gather <br />their grubby bodies <br />into my skirt, I'd cry. You <br />and your father, she'd chide— <br /> <br />the way, each time I kicked <br />and wailed against sailing, <br />my dad shook his head, said <br />You and your mother. <br /> <br />Now, a city girl, I ease one <br />loose from its siblings, <br />from its clear plastic coffin, <br />place it on my tongue. <br /> <br />Just to try. The smooth <br />surface resists, resists, <br />and erupts in my mouth: <br />seeds, juice, acid, blood <br /> <br />of a perfect household. <br />The way, when I finally <br />went sailing, my stomach <br />was rocked from inside <br /> <br />out. Little boat, big sea. <br />Handful of skinned sunsets.<br /><br />Sandra Beasley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cherry-tomatoes-2/
