By Leah Naomi Green
I cut a cantaloupe from its rind and hold it, scalped
and slipping. Inside it, there are seeds in folding rows,
dark in the concentric hollow, and I don’t know how
I will remove them,
and I don’t know how they keep one another,
in loose grasp, from falling,
or what they would touch if they fell.
Washing dishes she notices, and is startled
by the dent at the base of her thumb that appears
when she holds her hand splayed
and the forearm does not quite meet the smaller bones.
Morning in the kitchen, light bright metal in the sink,
I go to stand beside her,
show her my own, matching hollow.
Slowly we are removing from our belief
those who, we’ve been taught, understand things,
the calm ones in clean shoes.
Tenderly we are removing them,
from the walls like fire escapes that have allowed us
to sit inside without concern.
Inside we find that we are standing, together at the sink
and we begin to cut the melon
whichever way we can.