There’s a melon in the soil
I see it in the distance as I lean back in a washed up beach chair.
My toes are in the sand. My chin is raised to the sun.
I pretend to stare at a teal tinted horizon as pale faces pass in proximity.
This soil is rippled with divots like a crater-ridden moon in the midnight sky.
It cozies into the earth like warm bodies under soft sheets on an early morning in late January, but no it does not sleep.
It is wide awake.
It makes no noise, this fruit-filled soil.
No, this melon hugs the roots of sun-spiraled seeds and rests with audacity in hopes to be heard by unplugged ears.
There’s a melon in the soil. I can feel it beneath me.
Yet, it stays underground like Harriet running from Jim in the South.
And the way they look at me seems to suggest that everything I know about myself is inconceivably false.
I smile comfortably and pull my eyes from the sky.
I dig deeper in the ground.
There’s a melon in the soil.
I can feel it beneath me as it stays underground like Harriet running from Jim in the South.
And I wonder what all these people will think if I get up out of my chair, climb to my knees and begin to dig.
Am I the only that feels the labor of this fruit clawing through the ground to show its face to the sun?
I know it’s there, so I’ll say it again.
There’s a melon in the soil.
×