Sugar Kiss
I weave through the market aisles, palming each melon
as I pass, succulent globes in hues of green and yellow,
orange the color of the sherbet my grandfather bought me
every summer. I pick up a Crenshaw, a Honeydrop,
a Golden Dewlicious, press both thumbs
around the puckered top, this melon’s belly button,
pursed lips, squinted eye. I run my nail along the ridges
in the skin, divots a shade lighter, a half-inch deeper,
smooth and cool like marble floor against bare soles.
I bring home a Sugar Kiss, slice through the thick rind
with its netted pattern of lines that feel like fresh scars
beneath my fingertips. The juices trickle over
my hands, in between my fingers. I scoop out seeds,
the fibrous threads that chain them to flesh,
gently separate the meat from its shell and chunk
each section into pieces. I plunge my teeth
into a quarter of the split orb, the melon giving so
readily to my mouth, my tongue tingling
from the sweetness still there
after I have swallowed.
Photo by Agnès PAUL-JOSEPH on Unsplash