Cherry Tomatoes

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.

For six months I dealt Baccarat in a casino. For six months I played Brahms in a mall. For six months I arranged museum dioramas; my hands were too small for the Paleolithic and when they reassigned me to lichens, I quit. I type ninety-one words per minute, all of them Help. Yes, I speak Dewey Decimal. I speak Russian, Latin, a smattering of Tlingit. I can balance seven dinner plates on my arm. All I want to do is sit on a veranda while a hard rain falls around me. I'll file your 1099s. I'll make love to strangers of your choice. I'll do whatever you want, as long as I can do it on that veranda. If it calls you, it's your calling, right? Once I asked a broker what he loved about his job, and he said Making a killing. Once I asked a serial killer what made him get up in the morning, and he said The people.

After you've surrendered to pillows and I, that second whiskey, on the way to bed I trace my fingers over a thermostat we dare not turn up. You have stolen what we call the green thing— too thick to be a blanket, too soft to be a rug— turned away, mid-dream. Yet your legs still reach for my legs, folding them quick to your accumulated heat. These days only a word can earn overtime. Economy: once a net, now a handful of holes. Economy: what a man moves with when, even in sleep, he is trying to save all there is left to save.

In the nearby plaza, musicians would often gather. The eternal flame was fueled by propane tank. An old man sold chive dumplings from a rolling cart, while another grilled skewers of paprika beef. Male turtledoves would puff their breasts, woo-ing, and for a few coins, we each bought an hour with the grief puppet. It had two eyes, enough teeth, a black tangle of something like hair or fur, a flexible spine that ran the length of your arm. Flick your wrist, and at the end of long rods it raised its hands as if conducting the weather. Tilt the other wrist, and it nodded. No effort was ever lost on its waiting face. It never needed a nap or was too hungry to think straight. You could have your conversation over and over, past dusk when old men doused their charcoal, into rising day when they warmed their skillets. The puppet only asked what we could answer. Some towns had their wall, others their well; we never gave the stupid thing a name, nor asked the name of the woman who took our coins. But later, we could all remember that dank felt, and how the last of grief’s flock lifted from our chests.

Poems

Cherry Tomatoes

More by Sandra Beasley

Vocation

Economy

Grief Puppet

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Poems

Cherry Tomatoes

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