A Tomato of Great Merit Is One That Has Met Great Defeat

When the tomato was dying—

blood-letting in a mud hut,

bleeding-out in some flung

cranny of northern Iraq—

the tomato said:

I prayed Mohamed.
I prayed Jesus.
I prayed Moses.
I prayed them all.

Jesus Christ, guys, just get me right.

Before the war, the tomato survived

the indignities of modern farming

and two semesters of Catholic college,

learning how to sing In-Just-Spring

and the Canticle of the Three Children.

The last day, patrolling a filthy village,

the tomato saw the desert dust

the husks of homes and hungry kids,

scattered bricks and burned-out vics,

shattered and spattered tree trunks.

The tomato saw

the dusty beards of Muslim farmers

who traded their tools for guns.

We are firing at the past,

they sang.

We are firing at the future.

The tomato wrote these words

on a Texas-wall near Mosul:

This is no place
for cowards and liars
be damned.

The tomato's last letter

pressing the pen so hard

maybe to make sure

the words were heard.

No use waiting night.
Only two ways to get home—
stepping off the plane
or being carried.