The tomato hides its griefs, its internal
damage hard to spot. Today, I called
a beefsteak a vegetable. Freddy said,
It’s a fruit, mom, that’s a truth.

Speaking with a plum in my mouth,
I go on about phonetics–tomayto, tomahto.
When I round the corner into regional dialect,
she says, let’s call the whole thing off.

I’ll admit she’s not wrong, no matter how
I slice it, it’s just semantics—
harmless mismatch between botanical
& legal meanings. Fleshy ripe ovaries denote

fruit, savory juices connote otherwise.
It’s a fruit with ambition, with a history
of wild aliases & slang for other perishables
love apples, wolf peaches, girl ripe to marry.

The Plaintiff swore an oath, testified
on Webster’s terms—potato, turnip, parsnip,
cauliflower, cabbage, carrot & bean—all parsed
& diced into evidence. I try to break the news,

explain all the ways truth withers
on the vine of facts, how its heart squishes
out gelatinous seeds. So eager & fragile
& prone to rot.