The best ones
I ever ate I ate
that summer, him dead
six months, me not yet
forevered again
to anyone. Tomatoes
the only fever, many-
chambered, jelly-seeded
—probably slicers,
nothing rare. Dissected
into the same glass bowl
night after night for a dinner
date with the pulpy sun
on its way through
my yard. Fayetteville,
Arkansas, city of wreckage.
Mozzarella, basil, salt.
Oil, the August air
humid, nearly liquid.
One evening I sat
on my back stoop
in a puddle of light
and knew I could live
without him, and was.
I ate the same dinner
from the same bowl
until the decision
ceased to be a decision.
Copyright © 2026 by Katrina Vandenberg. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 19, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
