Melon Zen

poem

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I don’t know how to pick out
a good melon. It has something
to do with scent—a sweetness

and musk. The melon should feel
heavier than it looks. There’s a trick
with the stem end, I think.

Press it and there should be
a certain amount of yield—
a give that indicates the perfect

ripeness. This is guesswork
for me. I’m gambling whenever
I open a melon and taste it

for the first time. I'm disappointed 
far more often than pleased.
But the bitter and too-firm bites

are worth the eventual glory
of an immaculate fruit. 
And there is arrogance, too. 

I deserve to bring goodness home.
Don’t you? We set the fruit on
our plates and wonder if it hides

a secret name. Does it
have a mother and father?
We stare into its creation.

It glistens. We drop
our forks and eat the orange
orb with our bare hands. 

To be human is to know
this kind of feast—
to know the urge to devour

the rind. To consume
is to possess. To possess 
all of it, we must travel

the universe. 
With sugar in our teeth,
we expand and expand.

Alone at our kitchen tables,
we become interstellar gods
swallowing small planets.