Raising Nightshades

All summer, every step into the greenhouse,

she trilled to her tomatoes, Hello, beautiful babies.  

Finally, finally, come cooler fall,

shaking her head, she noted they’d been over-watered,

reset the timer to water them less often.

Surveying damage with the shame of a busy mother,

she harvested all the red cracked globes, too embarrassed

to offer the moldered surplus to colleagues.

She threw them out to compost, set to save the rest.

Their radial crusted cracks possible harbors of mold and rot,

she carved their tops like jack-o-lantern lids lifted by the stem.

She blanched, slip-skinned and cored them,

crushed the slick remains, stuffed basil into the boiling pot,

and canned three quarts of spaghetti sauce.

Knowing damn well the alkaloids will make her knees ache,

she vowed to eat her harvest anyway, in salsas too.

She’s sung to these tomatoes grown of saved seed,

and rising stiffly with a groan from a low couch,

she’ll wonder, How could my babies do this to me?