5 April 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 1
We looked at each other, then at the plate of tomatoes,
and you said, do we eat them?
Our neighbor was dead. Fallen over in her front hall.
She had brought us green tomatoes.
Now they were ripe, they were heirloom. They were a head,
cut off and served to us
on a plate while we were going about our morning.
On the night of the earthquake, we ran to the Weather Channel
and then you said: are earthquakes weather?
Slight pause in which the world comes down.
We ate glamorously with beer and bread
The night of the hanging, you said when does he hang?
as if you had asked when is supper? We laughed.
Then we went online. The despot had been hanged hastily,
for too few of his crimes
an hour before, while we were drinking wine.
About the author:
Joy Katz's two poetry collections are Fabulae and The Garden Room. Recent work appears or will soon in APR, Seneca Review, and Washington Square. She teaches poetry writing at NYU.