memory of water melon

i.

greased, giant, floating and lolling

in the pool – while grown, bare-chested

men grapple with its smooth green expanse

of mottled skin – trying to lift it up, heave

its slipperiness onto shoulders – traverse

the elusive fruit first across the wide wet water.

 

ii.

split open, seeds, sun, spitting contests,

picnics, bare feet, cool grass, juice running

down chins, hard black kernels against teeth:

biting, testing – what is it like to ingest a seed?

an origin? a being? and will a giant watermelon

really grow up and crack inside me?

 

iii.

a patch cubed: pink, diced, de-seeded;

properly prepared and presented in dissected

fruit salads, on tidy trays with toothpicks

to reduce the messiness, the recognition,

the raw essence of what grows

greedily from the open ground.

 

iv.

carrying this evidence, this beautiful

germination expanding within me: first,

a speck, a dot, a granule; then,

stretching steadily from poppy seed to

apple seed to raisin, blueberry, raspberry,

grape, cherry, kumquat, kiwi, plum,

tangerine, peach, avocado, tomato,

mango, apple, orange, papaya, grapefruit,

coconut, cantaloupe, honeydew –

time-pressing outward in every direction:

a miracle taking center stage –

the largest, roundest watermelon: firm, strong,

abundantly heavy under my belly,

under the touch of my amazed hands:

ready to emerge and roll on out into the glory of life.

 

 

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