The Muskmelon

The Muskmelon                           

I hold your round body in my hands,

feeling your weight, giving a tap

hoping your time has come

Placed on the wooden cutting board,

I grab the heavy knife, ready to cut

You make me think of a sacrifice,

Something offered—

It is you, you are the gift

I slice into your flesh

A semi-circle cut half around

then again, meeting the first cut

I split apart your body,

And sigh at what I see

Your wet green flesh with

hundreds of caramel colored

tear-shaped seeds;

your children

They cling tight to mother,

each one individually attached

within a whitish-fleshy nest

I feel sad at what you hold

so carefully inside your womb

but you are the sacrifice

I slice into your celadon fruit,

making symetrical lines,

dividing you into little pieces

only to find that when I

place a piece of you onto my tongue

and bite

you were not ready after all