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
