Tomato

poem by Maia Nichols

into some swamp land dream scape I trudged with a small wooden paddle and some grape juice for the morning, not looking back or harnessing any of the uncertainty that was collecting dust in my den back home, naïve yet with a slightly sour aftertaste, like the grapes growing on the arbour outside your house, you graced the world with your soft skin, steadier than even the most majestic ranunculus blossoming in a vase atop some earthly furniture, all this with the sincerity of a dove and three pieces of I.D.