Confessions of a Human Nerve Ending

with apologies to Pablo Neruda Pablo, I'll be the first to admit that I do not have your way with words, but the first tomato from my first garden exploded in my mouth in a rush over the sides of my tongue so that my teeth felt bathed in red, and the seeds wallowed in their own juice like a pig in a mudbath, or a dog in a dead carcass. If you've seen either one of those acts you know that both are in ecstasy and the seeds were in ecstasy too and were rewarding me, my taste buds, the warm welcome of my throat. Pablo, this tomato was fine, was my grandfather's hopes for me revealed in popping, bursting, explosion of flavor that even moments later I still can't describe. What kind of writer am I Pablo? That something as simple as a tomato, freshly picked and rinsed could leave me speechless, wordless, a writer that is trying to steer clear of words like enchanting, heavenly, or divine. Language says so little about tomatoes, Pablo about what it means to grow one, to watch ...