Of My Mother, In Middle Age
Her pleasures, it seems, are few
and highly perishable:
chief among them melon—cantaloupe
I've heard her say,
I don't like sex, but honeydew—a tart one—
ah, my mouth waters.
And though already
(at only thirty) I've arranged to hate
all ground-fruit, to puzzle
when she pairs the watery chunks
with prosciutto, yogurt, salt,
I notice, cutting one for her,
how the toothy mass of seeds
looks like my insides—luscious,
easily thrown out.