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.


Really trying to open myself to new possibilities in my writing. Let me know what you think. Another Scottish Husband poem.


We took a tour to land's end. 
Days and days.
A cord or band of loosely twisted.
It was the least he could do, being older, Scottish.
Inverness was a city of water, bridges.
I saw men in kilts, brass-buttoned jackets, skipping up steps to old brick, ironmongery.
Flashes of their socks.
I didn't know.
Or woven fibers.
Longest span of bridge over the firth I heard farther.
Road dwindling north to Dornoch door-knock.
Did we have a future?
Pulling-off places for passing.
Devastating moors random with crofts, spiralling peat smoke.
More sheep than people.
As in candle.
The clearances did their job.
He said a land a person needed to be born to.
Ruin in his eye. 
As in cigarette lighter.
The mainland's most northeasterly point.
Sailed the Viking longships.
Herring long gone.
Last stop. 
Perhaps beginning.
I was crucible.
Despite the look away from the camera, wind whipping.
Stacks of rock at the headlands.
Crash of sea at the bottom of craggy bluffs.
I bought glass in the gift shop.
A man needed to take a stand. Eventually.
That supplies fuel to flame.
Molten sand capturing bubbles, his eyes lost at sea.

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