The Garden

I'm split like over-ripe tomatoes; red pulpy

flesh pushed through the torn skin. My legs

pushed apart shiver—goose pimples like funeral

ants dragging their dead home to bury. I'm

impenetrable, my womb a safe haven, a

fertile rich soil like Grandmama's garden,

where the tomatoes were the sweetest and

plumpest. The extras went to the compost

heap because there were too many.