These are not the tomatoes she wanted,Heirlooms such as Cherokee Purple, orEven Brandywines. But the clerk onlySells what's brought in, finds labels, wandsEach three-inch pot through as she would
A bag of chips or box of three penny nails.Really, the old woman muses, I should haveEnded my day at the seedsman, but it's not
Near here -- what, twenty miles? So I'veOpted for the discount store again, to buyThese things that hurt my soul: hybrids.
There's this about them, they do produceHeavy fruits that please her folks and friendsEasily enough, and in larger numbers. But
To her there's something in them lacking.Old varieties taste of the eyes of youngMen, of weeping, of laughter, ofA child's anger at being teased, ofThe confusion of having one's braid pulled.On the hybrids she can't say as much.End to youth, beginning of sameness; aSafety that came to her too soon.