In My Next Life Let Me Be a Tomato

lusting and unafraid. In this bipedal incarnation

I have always been scared of my own ripening,

mother standing outside the fitting room door.

I only become bright after Bloody Mary’s, only whole

in New Jersey summers where beefsteaks, like baubles,

sag in the yard, where we pass down heirlooms

in thin paper envelopes and I tend barefoot to a garden

that snakes with desire, unashamed to coil and spread.

Cherry Falls, Brandywine, Sweet Aperitif, I kneel

with a spool, staking and tying, checking each morning

after last night’s thunderstorm only to find more

sprawl, the tomatoes have no fear of wind and water,

they gain power from the lightning, while I, in this version

of life, retreat in bed to wither. In this life, rabbits

are afraid of my clumsy gait. In the next, let them come

willingly to nibble my lowest limbs, my outstretched

arm always offering something sweet. I want to return

from reincarnation’s spin covered in dirt and

buds. I want to be unabashed, audacious, to gobble

space, to blush deeper each day in the sun, knowing

I’ll end up in an eager mouth. An overly ripe tomato

will begin sprouting, so excited it is for more life,

so intent to be part of this world, trellising wildly.

For every time in this life I have thought of dying, let me

yield that much fruit in my next, skeleton drooping

under the weight of my own vivacity as I spread to take

more of this air, this fencepost, this forgiving light.

Natasha Rao