Some days we’d walk to the corner market
the one with air conditioning
so cold
it gave us arm pimples and
raised nipples,
wandering through aisles
with no intent
to purchase.
But-
every other week you’d thump
a melon
striped with green
and listen
for the ripeness inside to say
yes-
it’s a good one, and
we’d lug it home to devour
like primitives.
But
I had no idea
you used your gift
on more than melons.
I go myself, now
breaking melons
who refuse to admit if
they’re sweet or
rotten
waiting for
someone to feel my skin,
translate my flesh,
and devour me.
