Amid the camaraderie of starlings, morning
ripens along with the tomatoes on the vine.
A single twist at the stem, and summer
falls into my hands, another garden’s
perfume of lemon balm and sage
between my fingertips, my mother’s
kerchiefed face. August ripens,
tomatoes lavishing beside currants’
fairytale orbs. Always, the robins
and the sparrows picnicked on the fattest
of the translucent globes my mother,
with sandy cupfuls of sugar, simmered
into jam I spread on toast, sitting
barefoot and caramel-kneed beneath
the patio’s canopy of sun. But tomatoes
we always ate fresh and whole.

For weeks now, you and I
have been eating tomatoes as if the harvest’s
bounty will never cease. My breasts, too,
are tomato-heavy, the bowl of my belly
dense with the curve that will only continue
to deepen in the months ahead. Lingering
in bed this morning, I lay my hands
along the rise, palms and fingertips
listening for our daughter. Quickening,
the doctor called it, the desire
for the coming child. Imagine:
next August, we will carry our daughter
into the garden. We will hold
the fruit to her face;
we will teach her tomatoes.