Cherry Tomatoes

Little bastards of vine.

Little demons by the pint.

Red eggs that never hatch,

just collapse and rot. When

my mom told me to gather

their grubby bodies

into my skirt, I'd cry. You 

and your father, she'd chide—

the way, each time I kicked 

and wailed against sailing, 

my dad shook his head, said

You and your mother. 

Now, a city girl, I ease one 

loose from its siblings,

from its clear plastic coffin,

place it on my tongue.

Just to try. The smooth

surface resists, resists,

and erupts in my mouth: 

seeds, juice, acid, blood

of a perfect household.

The way, when I finally 

went sailing, my stomach 

was rocked from inside

out. Little boat, big sea.

Handful of skinned sunsets.