Tomato

In these Tariff Times, I can afford but one tomato.
An heirloom varietal, hunted and gathered from the market.

This vessel of August was meant to serve for family dinner;
but I find myself washing it,
polishing the ridged orb it with a linen towel,
carrying it to the counter to dispatch before noon.

I slice it with tender strokes, cautious as so not
to catch and drag ragged edges in the skin with my knife pull.
Five wagon wheels and a perky stemmed pumpkin-ribbed top.

Gathering my wee pinch pot crystal bowl
mounded gently with flaked Maldon sea salt,
I pour greedy glugs of festival-winning olive oil from a cruet.
Tomato rounds in front of me carry the essence of late summer,
of warm rains and searing heat, tossed by house-shuddering storms
and a testament to surviving the footprints of bugs and butterflies.

I palm the first heavy piece,
I slurp it into my mouth as if a soft shell oyster.
While the briny minerals melting off the salt
and her pinky-clear juices keep the ocean on my mind,
the earthy sweetness of soil-grown fruit
soon commands my attention.

The flecks of Tellicherry pepper
and floral swirls of first-press olives
create the kind of concerto that only beckons
from instruments crafted of the finest raw materials.

I pause to call my family down to join me, but words fail.
Since my mouth is ajar already, I slot in one more tomato,
and then another, and then another.
I leave the top on the board; I can be generous.
"There's a bit of tomato left!" I call out.

= = =

August lingers on my tongue;
may it keep me warm
and light-filled as autumn knocks.