heirloom

(…)

For weeks now, you and I
have been eating tomatoes as if the harvest’s
bounty will never cease. My breasts, too,
are tomato-heavy, the bowl of my belly
dense with the curve that will only continue
to deepen in the months ahead. Lingering
in bed this morning, I lay my hands
along the rise, palms and fingertips
listening for our daughter. Quickening,
the doctor called it, the desire
for the coming child. Imagine:
next August, we will carry our daughter
into the garden. We will hold
the fruit to her face;
we will teach her tomatoes.

The second half of Jacqueline Kolosov’s lovely poem Quickening, from the July | August 2007 issue of Orion