The Melon

After the argument, the moon shadowed me from room to room,
and when I tried to sleep the plaintive theme song from Boyhood
(i don't want to be your he-ro') circled around my thoughts
urging them on to tears, so I got up and tried to find something
perfect, like good news on a bad news day. I picked up the melon,
one of those very large, unfamiliar kinds that you leave around
with a suspension of disbelief-the unseen insides are at work
growing sweet, surely-held it in front of me like a basketball
and decided it was ripe enough to try. The knife went in as if
pulled, and a line drew itself to the southern pole of the globe
which the blade merely traced. So, too, for the second cut
which defined the slice, and the crescent came out with news
of a found Sea of Tranquility. a watery light green, with a pink
current like the reflection of sunrise. How perfect, Ithought,
and then, seeing the determined, complex comb of knotted seeds
which hung on for dear life, considered the difficulty of separating
who we become, from the sharp-edged, indigestible seeds in wait.