DEAR WATERMELON SEED

Thanks for coming to hang out in my stomach last night.

You are so clever,

the way you snuck into my mouth like that.

So clever, aren’t you!

One of the reasons I fell for you, to boot.

I could have sworn your friend Watermelon

was gonna want you to stay but

I’m glad you came over anyway,

despite how it ended between us.

You are so small and round in person,

much darker than you look in the pictures.

Much more of a “fun guy” than the tabloids

at Whole Foods have you chalked up to be.

Might I add—

a chip off the old farming block.

Seed, I want you to know that

pooping you out wasn’t intentional

nor malicious. Please don’t cry little juice tears,

or get lost in the crevice of some woman’s teeth,

or drown yourself in the disgrace of a mixed fruit bowl.

Don’t let your life go down the drain.

Please don’t cry the fertility out of you.

I never meant for hurt, this I swear.

There were rumors that you were trying to “harvest” a child

in my small intestine, which led to

my colon’s hasty (and might I add, a tad rude) removal

of your little body cavity from within me.

Colon is an old bird, more jaded than an Indian headdress—

this was to be expected.

Though you are long gone,

I will always remember you.

If I left your heart with bad feelings

I hope you don’t harbor them there,

just dock them for repair.

The memories are ultimately where it’s at.

Like the time you got lodged in my tonsils and

tongue spent two days trying to pull you out.

(I still laugh about it to this day).

The time I burped after that ginger ale drinking competition,

and you popped right back up in my mouth yelling, “Tally ho!”

Damn near gave me a heart attack.

The time I ate those “bad blood” cousins, the cashews?

You told me you needed space.

I gave you a rocket ship and a match.

The time I found out that a man hated me

just a little less than he hated himself,

my heart went out and crushed herself.

Shriveled up into a prune

like a deflated, ripped balloon.

You sunk down there right next to her

and held her for hours

while she cried the kind of red stuff

that reminded veins why they are blue behind closed pores.

Little prune heart found solace in you.

Chewed up and spit out, you knew fruit very well.

I hope you have found a nice mound somewhere.

Perhaps even a cow pile.

(I heard those help you grow twice as fast,

especially the ones way out in California.)

I hope you fall in love with a beautiful watering can.

I hope your children are as delicious and healthy

as you are.

Tell them about me.

About the good times.

About how I spilled my guts

and shared my insides

with the only thing

that ever dared to grow with me.

Your soilmate,

Rose