Poem: Tomatoes

My mother hovered over the staked

vines, the sweet fuzz of pale green stems. 





By August the heavy air leaned on them.

When the sky cracked with lightning





the stakes held the rain

and the fat beefsteaks swelled.





On a chopping board, I ran a serrated

knife across their thin skin for thick slices;





water poured from the pulp and seeds—

of the quadrants—





Whatever churned out there in the

news of irradiated rice paddies,





the burning white streets of America,

whatever hurricane was coming up





from the unknown waters, whatever fate

was brewing in the hungry lots across town,





you soaked up salt and bread—

nightshade of sun, the Navajo called you.