Skinned

The tomatoes are naked,
five of them, blanched, skinned,
a little indecent, something

not meant to be seen. The knife
is sting-sharp, dissects them
into precise quarters.

The recipe dictates de-seeded:
I push my thumb against the secret flesh,
feeling its moist resistance. It gives,

I scoop. Pulp, warm to the touch,
slick and tender, slips
between my fingers, seeds suspended

in umbilical sacks. I half expect
it to start pulsating, a stranded creature
straining back to its sea.

Detritus now, discarded, it’s swept
into the food waste, where it bleeds
among egg shells and onion skins, pale, lost.

…

Antonia Kearton writes, parents and is training as a person-centred counsellor in the Highlands of Scotland. She has been published in various journals including Acumen, Northwords Now and New Writing Scotland, and is intermittently on twitter as @AntoniaKearton.