Three plump tomatoes,
products of my late summer garden,
sit on the kitchen cutting board

in a triangular array,
each a bit smaller than the other
but every one just as red,

awaiting their fate.
Today, they are almost decorative;
tomorrow, they’ll be someone’s salad,

split open by serrated knives,
sliced, cubed, even crushed,
their thin seeds and juices

staining the wood.
They look so peaceful now, so red
in the terrible white kitchen.


[First published in Maelstrom, Fall 2001]

09/30/2001

Posted on 09/30/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt