tries to make new mistakes, for variety, instead of repeating the old ones, and is the editor of Star*Line
, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and the poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change
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Wine and Roses Tomatoes
Everything was made with tomato
that night—except the wine.
Unheard-of varieties and colors of tomatoes,
more than enough to entwine
a whole new world, shaped like a tomato.
Sliced heirloom rainbow tomatoes
with chèvre and crackers, and the first bottle of wine
(a rosé) opened; tiny sweet scarlet tomatoes
like the candy our mothers claimed (as we whined)
would spoil our supper; aromatic golden tomatoes
grilled on buttered toast; a white wine
to accompany chicken strudel with mango-tomato
conserves, creamy Italian Roma-tomato-
and-basil bisque; a more robust red wine
with lamb-stuffed striped green Zebra tomatoes.
No ketchup. Broiled Brandywines, tomato-
and-mushroom salad, ragout with tomatoes,
crimson-flecked tomato bread, another wine;
tomatoes Anna, tomato soufflé, tomato
aspic, tomato mousse, tomato compote, more wine,
tomato jelly, tomato cake, tomato
pie and pudding, tomato tartlets, the last of the wine,
and finally coffee—without tomatoes.
We staggered out into evening. The cool air was like wine,
under a moon like an enormous orange