The Fruits of August

By August, the tomato plants
in Grandma's garden 
strain to hold their weight.
She calls me to her side
and sends me hunting
in the fruited jungle,
a basket swinging from my arm.

Magic -- that first tomato,
round, ripe, shiny smooth,
skin creased near the stem.
I find a few, deeply red,
several tinged with orange,
and dozens, hard as rocks
and greener than the leaves.

I'm Grandma's bounty hunter,
sent to find the fatted beafsteak,
a fabled fruit --
huge, swollen red with seeds,
drooping near the dirt.

Kneeling between the rows,
I need both hands
to pick our prize
and raise it to my nose,
burning with the acrid scent
of freshly torn stems,
still bleeding.

Scott Speck
06/14/2001