I. N. Shimabuku
My sour eyes,
how dare they not deceive me.
Why can’t my visions of exploding tomatoes be fake?
Now the windows are icky, my father will kill me.
He doesn’t like it when tomato guts are on the windows.
Me neither, but the light filtering through red is beautiful.
The tomatoes keep exploding. They’re coming east.
East, where the sun rises, or rather, unhides itself.
I think the sun is a coward, because when the tomatoes
Erupt from the east, the Sun immediately hides.
I don’t blame her, really. I hate social interaction.
I heard my neighbor got run over by a tomato.
Good for him, he always wanted to die.
He was also my principal, so I would understand.
A zucchini man surrounded by lemon eyed kids.
Yup, will tear your life apart. That’s why I don’t look in mirrors.
My dad had to yell at me to get up. I hate thursdays.
Somehow, the tomato explosions have subdued.
Thank god because they have been keeping me up at night.
Smiling, of course, as the explosion smelled of sweet pasta rain.
It’s the season to grow our spaghetti. But everyone’s too afraid.
I don’t have friends so I have befriended myself.
And some dead tomatoes by the window.
I named them Sarah, Bella, Andrea, and Stella.
They have begun to ferment, like wine.
My mother and father both loved wine. Why one of them isn’t here today.
Dad wants to go to my neighbor's funeral. He lets me stay home because I’m
Sick of this nonsensical weather. It’s raining tomatoes.
And my allergies are turning me to olive.
I might as well be dying, so I have decided to let the small tomato in.
He’s been at my door for some time. Looks appetizing.
Are we allowed to ingest tomatoes? Is it cannibalism?
Well, cannibalism is a state of mind, and social construct.
Plus, if we lust for wars, it’s okay to lust for other plants.
My dad has locked himself in his room. He’s holding a hatchet.
Of course he’s afraid of me. If he can weaponize a small wine bottle, I can weaponize
My sour eyes, how dare they not deceive me.
Everyone is alive? Why is my stomach peeled open?
Of course, the hatchet must’ve won; I had been fooled, supposedly.
What surrounds me are tomatoes, all in nurses’ uniforms. Glaring at me.
“You’ve done it again, lemon eyes?” one nurse said. “A bit sour of a girl,
I. N. Shimabuku is a young
Ryukyuan-Scottish writer from California. She has been published in
several literary magazines such as The WEIGHT Journal, All Ears, Blue
Marble Review, and Outlander Zine. She currently attends an
art high school where she studies Creative Writing.