What the Tomato Wants

Sight-check: I’m firm – not unwilling;
Ripe for you, your punchbowl quench,
Between your fingerprints, pressed
To the board and moisture ensured.

A brief history of me:
Delivered by savage instinct
But staying and –indeed- kept
For wont and succulence,
Cultivated in tenderness,
Culminating in a terrarium inside.

I await as we mutually salivate:
One internally, one in interim.
Skin deep, you press,
The film, a reminder,
A scintilla before greed
Becomes gorge
And slice.

But before,
An alert:
‘Rupture…yonder!’
Careful: it is the seeds you seek.

You know and ignore
The absence I endure,
Protracted space and
A prostrate protrusion
Of lips and the subtle tips.
Leave me quartered, sliced
Groping and seeping – my seedlings!

Savour, for it has become
Profoundly clear (for me,
not you),
Roles require reverse.

Continue as you may to pick
I’ve watched, I’ve rippled,
Melted and burst from skin to hips.
Now it is I who wants to trace though
To the red and ripe
Plumage, sit heavy in your
Stomach. Conduct the
Spitting of silence.
Slice thin, skin grazing,
A sour touch to envelop,
With capitulation and
Coaxing the warm fortress
Of a body buttressed, voyager
And the land uniting;

The freedom of the forager
To mark with flagstaff.
It’s the balance,
The Greenhouse balance,
And self-regulation,
Spreading and consuming,
Entering, muscle and muscle
Conversing, converging,
Conveying the seizing of the state,
Making you mine –
and mine alone – to sate.

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