Heirloom Tomatoes | Mary Bone
Heirloom shopping,
nostalgia called
my tomatoes are called heirloom.
I ate them.
Heirloom shopping,
nostalgia called
my tomatoes are called heirloom.
I ate them.
Imagine a grief like this:
long lean empty arms,
a runner’s legs marking unfinished miles.
Sunday days, stretches of desert.
Drawn out sentences.
Streams of consciousness
open to nothingness but
dusty roads prickled with green
finger-like conical trees, living, but dead-looking,
sharp and pointed.
No touching, no softness, no healing.
Amazingly unnaturally natural.
Haunting signs of grief.
A cactus,
Black-threaded stitches puncture my happiness,
the ridges on the desert’s prize:
the saguaro of grief.
Come, sway with my soul,
Sing peans to paradise,
Eyes carpet the road beyond.
How many versions do you see,
Is yours any different now,
Than the one you ever saw in me,
Carving blossoms,
Craving certitude.
Come, sway with my soul,
A puppet on a smouldering string…
Dying is likely the end of our script
We find out first hand Was That It?
No credible idea has ever been found
No reports from the no-longer-around
Many guesses about upcoming events
Thermodynamics, recycled elements
And unvetted myths about the Paths To Glory
We’re dying to know Is there more to the story?
Stay tuned and find out