Melon

I was never a child. My granmama
told me I had the storm of Egypt
inside my head. She'd stop her rocker,
peer down at me like she'd peered down
at the dead when they lowered the casket.
On Sundays she cut watermelon into shapes
of flowers, and ships and binoculars.
There were so many slippery black seeds
to spit out. She said this was a sign of
death. But the fruit was sweet and pink.
Yes, she said, that's what draws you in,
the ripeness of flesh, how you devour it.
As an adult, I don't eat watermelon. It's
just too creepy.