The summers were all watermelon. Mom would cut that big green candy skin wide open, the knife plunging into the deep pink fruit belly. I was five and thirsty. I’d hear the thump, thump of the silver blade as it struck the butcher block, the sound of an exit wound and the crunch as she pulled everything apart.
On the hottest days I saw love this way, like the crunch and pull, the thirst. I saw love like so many closed clams. I took dull knives to the furled lips and thought about opening. I wanted nothing more than to see inside, to revel the silver tongue.