UNDER ANESTHESIA, I REMEMBER A WATERMELON WITH SLIPPERY SEEDS
We sit on our mother’s stoop and spit seeds
into the tall grass.
We spit them across the lawn
all the way to the garden shed.
My sister says
This is how we grew.
Pulp clings to our fingers.
Bumblebees tangle our hair.
My lips form a whistle
and seeds pelt the fevered sky.
All the way from tomorrow a surgeon says
God what a mess.
His voice rumbles in the shed
and a lawnmower lets out a roar.
Crickets shriek up from the chickweed—
Petals swirl through linoleum halls.
Quick, my sister says, do this—
and spits seeds into the safety of her palm.
We hide them in our fists. One by one
we polish them.