Tomato Bloodlust

The iconic tin cylinder

wrapped in red,

cursive letters in white relief.

Concentric circle waveforms,

raised like a seawall’s edge

concealing concentrated

vegetable blood.

A vine of tomatoes sacrificed,


stored at the grocer’s altar,

paid for by credit card.

Vegetarian hands

grip the

handles firmly. Twist the key.

Rotate the serrated disc.

Spin the blade wedged

cutting, twirling,

around the rim.


Lunch cut free.

The most violence I get to

relish when I eat.

The taste of ketchup soup, Americana.

Underwhelming, lacking substance.

I should have sprung

for Progresso.