Page 8 - WDickinson_Blackwell_Submission

Xīguā
Watermelon

I.

Your back to me, I sit at the kitchen table
and you slice a watermelon in half.
The color matches
your lipsticks, which I try
while you are out.

There, from your mouth,
did I come from you?

Your hand holds the fruit still, its wholeness
severed neatly. I watch your fingers
and run to my room,
scratch my nails along the wood of
my dresser, pondering the almond brown of
my own hand, imagining the smooth
milkiness of yours.

There, from your hands,
did I come from you?

We raise the slices to our lips,
thin juice streaks on my chin.
I want more, but
it will ruin my dinner.

There, from your belly,
did I come from you?

II.

I crawl into bed with you, like
a child again, but now I blush when
you hold my hand because
I haven’t lived at home for years.

I tell everyone that home is where
Colorado plains rise into flatirons, where
under summer sun,

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