I miss the version of me so excited by the colour of a tomato

that he jumped up ‘n down makin’ strangers stare in confusion.

And I miss bein’ an heirloom, unable to grow resentment 

or even worse, lose my passion in tomato masochism.

(he can’t understand masochism cause he’s a tomato)

I miss the days I bought tomatoes without dinner plans in sight 

and the smell of blue-ish-green sometime in June when I was 

really into fennel and my only worries were about my corkin’ bell peppers and the white spots on my zucchini. 

(also the growing fear of becomin’ a tomato masochist)

I miss the version of me with a big tomato for a head, slowly leakin’ slimy seeds through the

pierced skin I call my mouth, and my soft body, harmless as can be, spendin’ every night painting

on a strict diet of tomatoes, corked peppers, and zucchini. And yeah, maybe it’s fucked up, but

I’ve never been this happy. And yeah, maybe I should stop.

But what gives you the right to judge the very first Tomato Man.

I miss when my petty knife was sharp enough to cut skin,

Sans rotatin’ the tomato, but now I just sit waitin' fer the blade…

to catch sweet spots, ‘n prick its rubber flesh, 

to make red sauce in naivety; skin, stems, and all!!

But now I feel dumb if I don’t blanch ‘n toss the peels

out the window only built fer a weekend in late August.

And as my mind w(a/o)nders about what happened to these skins,

I ask myself in silence… “maybe the tomato likes it???”

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Jackson Dunnigan is a Montreal-based poet who’s been actively writing for the last two years. Jackson takes a psychological approach when writing; with much of it being ranty, self-critical and obsessive, akin to a stream of consciousness.