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Late Tomato


It reminds me of when my cousin and I
pricked our index fingers with a sewing
needle filched from my mother's work basket.
She had come to visit, but would be leaving
soon. The blood pact was her idea. Mine
was that I would perform any act
under the sun to demonstrate my love.

There is an alien red drop in the bleached
and weightless tangle of tomato plants
breathing their last all weekódead, no, still
harbouring some unseen trickle of green
nourishment on which this lone tomato
has flourished: smaller and brighter than all
the restólate, and if not best, then only.


Anne Pierson Wiese

The Malahat Review

Autumn 2016


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