Watermelon

Pink lake

your sheared surface

glistens slick

as licked lip. Body

of water, you are

ninety-two percent

solid fluid,

brimful as a scuttled

canoe—unstable as

you take the shape

of any container

you’re propagated in;

Japan grows you

square for a sturdy

stack. Green sided

aquarium,

your still depth swims

a school of ebony

pips—or not

if we’ve doctored you

neuter as we would

breed fish boneless

if we could. What hope

do we have when

we fiddle the force

for renewal? Moss-

patterned boulder,

roll back

from the tomb’s black

hole. Pierced torso,

let your ooze

of pink water recall

the high heat of summer,

when we dove

into you and surfaced drip-

­ping your sweet and

sticky from chin to

elbow—spitting a contest

of glossy black seeds …