In October

by Priscilla Frake

In June, I planted a cherry tomato out front, 

where it sprawled all over its pot like a demented 

bonsai, searching for light in the shadows 

of trees. I watered it when I remembered, 

and paid it little mind. Today 

I plucked the last fruit and ate all of summer 

in one bite—sweetness, sharpness, a delicious 

sense of possibility. I should have saved it for 

my husband, I should have preserved it in 

mason jar or freezer, but I opened 

my mouth and that was the end 

of it, it was gone so quickly. 

It was a pure electric  

jolt, a round sun married to a brisk 

wind, a precious gem set in a thicket

of ugly prongs. It woke me up 

out of my stupor. I stopped, one foot 

on the threshold as I swallowed 

this explosion: Yes—Everything 

is like this. I just never

notice. I looked up at birches, still holding 

a few yellow leaves. A squirrel raced 

along the curve of a branch, a small rain 

of gold in his wake. Then I went back 

into the house with this burst of sun 

inside me, this bright vermillion 

nub of vanishing savor, pop 

of firecracker red. It glowed, 

a secret I digested all day slowly, 

until it was gone.