The tomato vine curls inward, searching for its wintering body. It knows about sleep, has tried to for more than a season. But still, it wakes in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, dreaming of a rebellion. There’s a shallow wind outside. The tomato vine shudders and laughs at its own fragility. Its leaves paper over the walls, under the dining table. Its flowers eventually bloom and the tomato vine weeps. I place it closer to the windowsill, to help it relax. I lean in before bed. To hear its thoughts, to dream its ghosts.
Peter Chiu’s recent work has appeared in Crab Creek Review, boats against the current, Midway Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in the San Gabriel Valley with his family.