I owned a shirt like that
Back when we had a garden with
Tomatoes every shape and color.
Yellow, green, and red. Like the moon,
Like roses, globes, or shaped like rain.
On hot nights the vines would pull
Themselves from deep beneath the soil,
As if they ached for whatever they imagined
Would be possible, had imagined
On the day when I had placed them
In the ground. There was no fruit
Shaped like a star.
Mornings I would stand
Outside at dawn. The fruit would
Sing the sun into the sky.
My shirt, that red one, hung
Off of me like memories of a rivalry
That I would never win.
That was what I had to leave behind.