I cut a cantaloupe from its rind and hold it, scalped and slipping. Inside it, there are seeds in folding rows, dark in the concentric hollow, and I don’t know how I will remove them, and I don’t know how they keep one another, in loose grasp, from falling, or what they would touch if they fell. Washing dishes she notices, and is startled by the dent at the base of her thumb that appears when she holds her hand splayed and the forearm does not quite meet the smaller bones. Morning in the kitchen, light bright metal in the sink, I go to stand beside her, show her my own, matching hollow. Slowly we are removing from our belief those who, we’ve been taught, understand things, the calm ones in clean shoes. Tenderly we are removing them, from the walls like fire escapes that have allowed us to sit inside without concern. Inside we find that we are standing, together at the sink and we begin to cut the melon whichever way we can.
Copyright © 2009 by Leah Naomi Green. Originally published in The Squaw Valley Review. Used with permission of the author.