Lament in Good Weather
So would this be how I'd remember my hands (given the future's collapsing trellis): pulling a weed (of all possible gestures), trespassing the shade between toppled stalks? A whole afternoon I spent chopping them back, no fruit but a glut of yellow buds, the crop choked this year by its own abundance, the cages overrun. And me not fond of tomatoes, really, something about how when you cut into their hearts what you find is only a wetness and seeds, wetness and seeds, wetness and seeds. Still, my hands came gloved with their odor into this room, where for days I've searched but found no words to fit. Bitter musky acrid stale -- the scent of hands once buried past the wrist in vines. Lucia Perillo From The New Yorker 10/26/98