They hung like giant perfectly round red grapes
globular, with a satin kind of shine
tantalizingly taut, clustered, heavy
mathematical in their repetition on the vine
The tiny food shops of Positano
decorated their entrances with them
a temptation to pass
before the cheeses, the breads, the wine
We bought them in all innocence
thinking we knew tomatoes
thinking we liked tomatoes
thinking theyʻd be pretty in our rental kitchen
But oh, the way they drenched the tongue
in deep summer, in sweetness, in richness
as if all the tomatoes weʻd known until then
were sad American ghosts best forgotten
