Bartholomew, The Cherry Tomato Plant
Poem by Julia DiMartino
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It’s 9:48 pm; I can feel the
liquid life aching through my micro-tubes
encompassing my body. I set a pen
on my lap and see it twitch with every
beat that my drum stretched too
tight dares to muster.
It’s 9:54 pm, the telescopes through
which show life, planted above my
mountainous cheeks, spasm to life in a
desperate attempt to avoid succumbing to sleep deprivation.
My telescopes, my windows. The windows through
which heavy drops are seen precipitating, true
It’s 10:01 pm; you stay planted beside me.
As if I would ever let you go elsewhere.
I see how you envy the others. They
worship a garish sun, as you wish to do so.
but it’s I who sees how you wilt and
whither, and it’s I who comes bearing
the liquid you so desperately crave. And
it’s I who in this hour would choose
a subject as conceited as myself and a
subject as painstakingly effortless as you.
It’s 10:10 pm, and I’m aching for you to
inhale me and take me in as if
you need me to live.