Descending Lydia by Charlotte Hamrick

I planted tomatoes on a Friday in April,
their little hairy leaves reminding me
of your legs in winter, their pungent breath
exhaling oxygen into my lingering fingers,
exuding a scent both biting and stimulating,
like commitment.
You came into the garden, looking annoyed.
You had planted tomatoes too, an activity
you imagined I’d never pursue. And yet,

these weren’t my first tomatoes but
that was another thing you didn’t know
about me. I could see your hackles were up,
competition and rage in equal parts blowing
up in your eyes, little black holes withering
my efforts to keep the peace. You plucked
a ripe red globe, handing the split fruit to me,
pink gelatinous matter spilling over my fingers,
out of my heart.

Then you walked away, a dying star on a moonless night,
and I let you.

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Charlotte Hamrick lives and writes in New Orleans while dodging her menagerie of rescued pets. Her poetry and prose has been published in online and print journals including The Rumpus, Literary Orphans, Eunoia Review, and Connotation Press. She is a Pushcart nominee and a finalist for the 15th Glass Woman Prize. Zouxzoux.wordpress.com

Photo: Charles “Duck” Unitas