Tomatoes

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.