praise the watermelon
its rosy blush
the surprising paleness of the inner rind
the crack when it splits open
just so much water
its ability to cool me from the inside
juice dribble or seed
escaping the corner of my sugar-laden mouth
praise my mother for remembering
to buy one for us
for choosing the best
her third stop after A Dong
and Save A Lot
there is never enough food
for knocking on and hefting
the giant benevolent beast
from stand to cart to trunk to home
for saying no this is for us
when I ask if we are bringing it
to my uncle’s July 4th barbecue
for hacking and slicing
carving into its porous flesh
because she knows I’m too lazy
my father too slow to cut it open
for her deep sigh and creaky knees
as she bends to hoist the melon
rolling on the hardwood floor
of our entranceway
as if harvesting from a field
of so many watermelons
praise my mother who I find
in a wicker chair in front of the TV
legs propped up and bed for a table
old stained sheet as a tablecloth
eating out of a giant tupperware
fork mid-air by her mouth full of mushed fruit
asking me telling me
is it ok? I’m going to finish it all
POETRY - Issue 31