“Don’t swallow the seeds,”
My old maid aunts would say
At the weekly watermelon ritual,
“Or a watermelon will grow inside your belly.”
But I never paid attention
And dreamed of bathing in the sticky sweetness
On hot July afternoons,
Plunging my mouth into a cool red wedge
And sucking out the juice
Like a giant mosquito out for blood.
I savored each dripping piece.
Once, I even got shot at
For stealing one from a private patch,
But I was crazy with watermelon madness,
And struck by the spell of thick summer heat.
At the rodeo in August
I won the bareback event,
And the third annual seed- spitting contest
Before a crowd amazed by my talents,
Each seed hitting the mark in a puff of powder.
Then the boys chased, caught,
And dragged me under the bleachers
To push my face deep into an over ripe melon.
But I ran away laughing.
Laying under the long shadows, drawing designs in the dust
With the heavy syrup, I squeezed the meat dry
And threw it up at unsuspecting legs.
Ah, the sweetness of watermelon dreams!
I saved the seeds for the red bird’s winter visit
And my little horse liked the rinds
Even more than corn or carrots.
And just like the certainty of never being able to kiss my elbow,
I never grew a watermelon inside my belly.