like inhaling a part of memoryI slice into the net-like rind of a perfect melon
two halves separate and fall awayunder the glistening canopy of the magnolia tree
pruning shears near chilled chablis glasseswe celebrate another summer harvest
in the closing moments of the waning lighta million crickets rub leathery wings
you cross your legs over mine
when suddenly our dog swoops in like a hungry kestrelburrowing deep sniffing your sweat
her eyebrows twitch as if detecting an organic compoundgrowing and dividing
the blade brushes my finger
but so absorbed in my task and the melon’s geometryI ignore the truth
scrape pits from its flesh and place the perfect cubes on a traya sea of red floods the cutting board
veins pulsate as tears swell cleansing my visiona swarm of wasps land on the serving tray
the yield of our long hot summeroverripe and decaying
Photo by Maxx Miller on Unsplash