“. . . and the heart does not die when one thinks it should . . .”

– Czeslow Milosz

Think of a tomato, ripe and fragrant
from a dear friend’s garden
— a gift, yes —
and how you so look forward to getting it home,
rinsing it in the sink, early summer breeze through the window,
June and junebugs clamoring through holes in the screen.

The sink, yes, cool water, fertile Earth
dripping over your hands and, oh,
how you might grasp it like an apple,
bite,
and how its skin will give and give
until the your canines are buried in the soft heart of it,
your mouth flooded by sweet broth and sour tears.

Home, you are distracted by fruit in a bowl,
pizza in a box, and when your friend stops speaking to you,
you abandon the tomato, already starting to shrivel,
to the fridge, foiled, so that maybe,

one day,
as one does, cleaning out the fridge you find
behind rancid butter, spoiled milk, and mold,
something wrapped in foil you no longer recognize.

It’s going in the trash, you know you’re going to throw it away,
but you can’t
not
unwrap it first to see if maybe, just maybe
its heart starts to beat again in your hand.