On the Seawalla community gallery of new writing, art and commentary hosted by Ron Slate

I Am Watermelon, I Am Lamb

 

 

My family used me to drink water,

they thought I was a tin cup.

This goes back to the day I cupped my palm in prayer,

and to the times I’d fallen but didn’t break.

 

A deep gash in my left leg left a scar

that no man ever loved —

a scar that proved nothing, disproved nothing.

 

For years things stayed the same:

I leaned on my scar. And in school,

my girlfriends used me as a sponge

in Arabic class, passed me around

away from the teacher’s eyes.

 

I also did it, used myself,

passed myself through walls.

 

But there’s no reason anymore to think

I am a watermelon.

Even though the friends I acquire in life

think that my green exterior

justifies putting me to the knife.

 

During religious holidays

people in our neighborhood considered me

a lamb, slaughtered me in front of my mom.

 

Mom reached out to touch me,

but when her hand went through my chest

she felt that the whole thing was an illusion

and forgave them.

 

This kind of illusion helped me later

to move about in empty trains.

 

I was nimble, lucky, and not once,

while packing my bags at crossroads

and waiting, did anyone plant a music instrument

in my head or think me a flower pot.

 

Then I committed suicide.

On my fortieth birthday

I threw myself off my table

into shards and fragments in front of the guests

who instantly disappeared.

 

I had to regather myself by myself,

sweep the floor, as I do

whenever dust fills my house

after I forget my soul windows open.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *    *

 

 

 

Skin Mole

 

 

At 3:10 PM in the first half of my forty-fourth year

I discovered a mole on my left calf.

It was summer. I was stretched out trying to nap

but couldn’t. Playfully I swung and turned my leg.

 

A sole small black dot

on the mound of flesh surprised me.

She was alone and neglected like a villager sitting on a rock

by the side of the road,

cars speeding by,

no one casting a glance at her,

though she covers her face with a floral handkerchief

to cover her sad teeth.

 

Sadness changes how lips move and teeth stick out.

I’ve observed people’s eyes and mouths,

how often the two arch their wrinkles

that jut out of lip corners

to slit my throat:

you aged, little one,

and I didn’t see you coming?

 

Imagine you didn’t know about a child you had

from a one-night stand:

I’m your mother. Where is your bastard father?

I said to my mole, my daughter.

I couldn’t deny my feelings, my sudden fears.

 

It’s lovely that she decided to live here,

sleep on my skin, in the shade

of my soft leg hairs. Lovely

that she didn’t runaway to another body.

 

And also delightful that I found out about her today,

on this hour, not tomorrow or the day after,

and wonderful that no orphanage will take her away,

no child protective services

will accuse me of maternal incompetence

toward a mole on my skin.

 

It’s beautiful that this mole is mine

at 3:10 PM in the first half of my forty-fourth year.

I fold it in my palm

to keep it from flying.