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