Ripe and ready, one of her offspring
wears a scar, which is not surprising.

Even the young among us acquire
boo-boos, which, if we are lucky,

heal nicely as our growing selves
lengthen and thicken. The early

scars are joined by later ones,
just as Juliet, the lanky tomato plant,

has popped out a good number
of juicy ovals this summer, some

misshapen and odd. A thin line
on one’s side does not dissuade me,

when the fruit is just-right red, from
gently plucking it and bringing it

into the kitchen with several of its
brethren, bound for tonight’s

corn salad. We swallow our scars,
rather than letting them swallow us,

imbibing all that healing that makes
us these perfectly imperfect selves.