August on her hands
August on her hands
red and running with juice,
her body squat, around
a quickly filling bucket
cradling another tomato
sharp slice and sniff
(ripe or rotten test)
bruised skins shimmering
a late summer sun;
tomorrow
the children will return –
to school their yellowed pencils,
small hands carving
twenty-six letters
erasing
scent of basil, tomato leaves
greenness etched on hands
This poem was originally published in The Prairie Journal, Issue #65, 2016
