Vines
I like to eat tomatoes.
The ones that grow from odd vines.
Whistling sounds.
A slight shine.
I like to grow tomatoes.
All of the dirt in the world wouldn’t be enough.
Seeds which are supposed to be tomato seeds.
They appear anywhere.
Vines that are plentiful,
But we can’t share, no.
There is nothing except tomatoes and their vines.
In this world.
I like to eat tomatoes.
Sliced supernaturally thin.
The crust of the vine.
Ends with nothing.
There is nothing left.
Except what grows on the ends of those vines.
That appear in my bedroom and tangle me up.
Scratch my arms and legs.
I like to grow things.
With dirt, rain, and sun.
Maybe a sprinkle of something odd.
Like the glistening of my eyes in the morning.
They appear anywhere.
Dreams or not.
Awake or tending to the land.
I don’t remember having 20 acres.
A forest of tomatoes.
Tend not to let anyone inside.
I like to eat tomatoes.
Which scratch my arms and legs.
Maybe a sprinkle of something odd.
So long ago did it.
There is nothing left.
Except my soul in those vines.
Copyright © Angelica Tao | Year Posted 2025
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