Jackie Craven

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.
 


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