The Tomato

by R.H. Nicholson

Juice bursts

from the 

punctured skin,

oozing

like cool lava,

dribbling down my lips,

chin, neck,

fingers, elbow,

forearm,

swimming

warm and earthy

as I inhale

the fresh

tawny red

cordial,

seeds and all,

dancing on my tongue

like magic,

plucked straight from the 

vine,

in a garden filled with her

love.