tomatoes

i made a cutting board into
a bed. the knives are in the trunk
with the rest of the kitchen.
how many chambers are there to the heart 
when it's an heirloom tomato? 
thick & asymmetrical, a blooming face.
i got the yellow from my father &
the red we learned when we were
still chewing the alphabet pink.
the gnats swarm all over the racks
of tomatoes at the farm, landing 
on every pockmark & scar-- onyx 
bodies gone angry-- a collar on my neck.
they're good for BLTs, or, at least,
that's what the farmers say. 
sitting on milk crates, acidic
blood dripping down their elbows.
the bacon finds its way, raw & fatty
creeping & tightening like my father's
worn leather belts, smacked across me.
i turn you over in the kitchen,
above the granite table where all
slicing will be done. give me your
sun-burning down-- your mouth empty 
of red. i want to lay open 
& dress in salt. i want to hear 
you fresh & spitting stone.
everyone keeps a jar of mayonnaise at
the back of the fridge where we could
hide to be safe until the family
orders italian hoagies again. salami 
as a sunday hat, peppercorns in our 
dress shoes. i love to see you like this, 
among the tomatoes, plastic bag sitting.
this is all bruises you know? 
we'll eat them standing up & 
tomatoes will taste like the backseat.