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.


Celebrating, sharing and inspiring poetry throughout Wisconsin.


Thinking about a series of Scotland poems… another life ago… more like Scottish Husband published here… did the weird tracks thing my accident… kinda liked how it looked… also including uniquely Scottish words… if they make sense in context… was italicizing them but it got messy and cluttered looking, so stopped.


He joked it was a beast.
I believed him,
=================== foreign American pencil skirt,
imagining a snuffling
creature in the ancient
pines, padding loamy
on a brew of earth,
leaves and needles.
An animal of witness
unseen in the murk,
winding walks of the braes
wilding the village,
gathering keeks of the river,
the sea, the smell of wetness,
me sinking in my knee-highs,
sky half-cast like a squint.

I was only =========== at the butcher's
on the corner in the square.
Smell of knives and greasepaper.
Smell of organ-grinding, anatomy,
black peppercorns.
A smile like pasture in his
blood-stained pinney.
He handed me what I asked for,
a parcel of minced heart, liver,
and oatmeal, neatly tied
with twine. ======================== I boiled it
in a pan, stuffed with disbelief
and spice. He said I was
too gullible. The pudding steamed
like field dressing, sliced across
the middle. I preferred the legend,
a creature given up for lost.

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