Plum Tomato

I hold you in my palm,
larger that the cherry
I am used to touching.
I look down on bulbous stomach,
thin skin taut over shivered flesh.
Navel, crusted, sinks deep
with generosity. But colder
than I can bear. I am not tempted
to suck your wet seeds,
your juices tasteless, frigid chill.
I slice, I cut you up
to quicken the warming,
and I find inside the red
heart of your matter.