House of the Tomato

If a woman wants to be a poet, she must dwell in the house of the tomato. -- Erica Jong

Regional website for the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, in partnership with the Reader's Loft.

GREEN BAY / NORTHEAST

Celebrating, sharing and inspiring poetry throughout Wisconsin.

Cosmic Egg Walked a Rustic Road

Seeing if the idea has legs.. pun intended… kinda fun imagining myself a Cosmic Egg…

Cosmic Egg walked a rustic road,
pacing her amble, distinctively waddle.
The lonely tarmac, trickle of ditch,
shell pearlized under an overclouded

sky.


If she wore pockets, her hands
would be deep. Slow profile of
drivers pretending not to mind.
Mind in the sense of paying

attention.

If she had hands. Her appendages
were brackets of proposition.
Hunters entered and left the woods. No
trespassing. Equation an expression of

what if?

Rustic was a reclaimed word. In the
sense of ribbon of road. In the sense of
reducing speed, painted barns,
rows of tasseled corn. In the sense of

preserving something.

Cosmic Egg walked the dawning.
She walked the trees and their mothering.
She walked the breath of leaves,
skipping by. What else could she

reclaim?

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