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Cherry Tomatoes
by Sandra Beasley 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.
From Theories of Falling by Sandra Beasley. Copyright © 2008 by Sandra Beasley. Used by permission of New Issues Press. All rights reserved.
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Winner of the 2007 New Issues Poetry Prize. “I kept coming back to these poems—the tough lyric voice that got under my skin. Clear, intent, this poet doesn’t want to fool herself or anybody else.”—Marie Howe, Judge Format: Paperback
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