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.


It might need a little more. Not sure.


Scotland's hag fury of bitterest winter.

Dark Beira howls across the moors and glens,

hewing the sea in great sheets of ice.

She is old again, old and weary.

Her one eye squires the light of a paltry sun,

wintertide a long night of desolation.

She is the mother of all gods and goddesses in the north.

her terrible hair, white and frozen, breaks from her

head in icicles. She remembers when the world was young,

and land was water and water was land.

She wears a shawl that floats on the sea,

gathered up in snow and sleet, her teeth

red-orange, halation of a treeless horizon.

She is old again, old and weary.

On the night of nights she searches for the drifting,

magic waters. She drinks. A sleep like

seasons, changing of the guard. She is the blossoming,

limb-legged one, fairer than any story.

We are pink with story. We like her mountainous

sons. We like her conjuring hammer.

But for her each day is a time bomb. She is middle-aged

by summer, decrepit by autumn equinox.

This aging in fast-forward is the worst.

© 2019 House of the Tomato