tomato tar

in my stained hands

cupped

like a chalice

I hold a tomato blush toned

heart shaped

harvesting

in the high tunnel 

where vines trellis

tall then cascade 

down the other side

I work for a farmer

fond of obscure varieties:

Green Zebra striping into

chartreuse and lime when ripe

Garden Peach, a fuzzy yellow

ping pong ball 

Chocolate Chestnut

which tastes like neither

nor smells like tomato

and how are tomatoes    fruit

like peaches

that dribble juice 

down my chin 

but not like blackberries 

which don’t blacken my fingers

but stain them 

red instead

if it does not match the 

color 

shape 

smell

I expect

how do I 

recognize it 

 

this heart shaped one

construction paper pink

like a Valentine 

nothing like

the chambered muscle

pulsing in my chest

cupped in white ribs

a different sort of chalice 

what does either 

have to do 

with love

                but

I am not

writing a love 

poem

 

besides, how does

the accretion of yellow 

dust from tomatoes

tar my hands 

then cascade 

green in water 

which is 

oh so 

clear