Caitie L. Young (they/them) is a poet and writer from Kent, Ohio. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in new words {press}, The Atlanta Review, The Sonora Review, The Minnesota Review, Passengers Journal, and elsewhere. They were the first-place recipient of the 2022 Foothill Editors Prize for best graduate student poetry, and they are a pushcart nominee. Caitie is an MFA candidate in the Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts program and teaching workshops as the Wick Poetry Center Graduate Teaching Artist.
HEIRLOOM
with skin so frail it will split and spill
like blood from child’s knees
like from my mother
who always told me
she does not have a green thumb
who says every seed planted at her
hand has died
my mother who always asks me
if i will have children and i consider
the tomato
the earthy swirl of juices
behind tight red skin, exposed to pest
the hand, and age, hanging ripe on the
vine in the height of summer
my mother says i will change my mind
i close my eyes and see red scales and
wrinkled tomato skin babies and tiny oval seeds
a simple God in juices so frail and wrinkled
i cannot taste the heirloom.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Image by Obed Esquivel-Pickett from Unsplash