1 hour ago
As in, “of the horizon”
A summer day is something like a watermelon,
Ellis says, digging trenches with her toe, my accomplice niece.
We’ve come to watch seagulls steal bread, to lurk
among the bathers in their underwear like creeps.
I can’t resist—I ask her what she means. You know,
she says. With all the little seeds.
When you spy people from a plane, they look like seeds,
not ants. Ants are always moving chunks of watermelon
back and forth; people know
a hundred thousand different ways to sit. Garrisons of knees
entrenched in sand, vines of sunscreen creeping
down dilapidated towers, and off in the moat, lurking
like assassins: hungry teenage eyes. They lurch and lurk
their way between the waves like seeds
lashed out by trebuchets, creep
around the curl of tides, get washed up like watermelon
rinds along the beach. Ellis always picks her knees
up when she runs. I taught her that, you know.
Her mom’s been riding waves again. I know
the signs: a look over the shoulder, something lurking
in the eyes. Less cogent declarations: Owls have knees,
you know. They just don’t use them. Seeds
have memories and you can train them how to grow. “Watermelon
Sugar” is a remix of a Motown song. Radiohead stole “Creep”
from Pat Metheny. She calls me a creep
for screening her calls, and she’s not wrong, but I know
what goes on. I am properly vigilant: “Watermelon
Sugar” could be their word for the juice. The voice lurking
into my kitchen from a number in Bulgaria perhaps seeds
cells of dealers here who break men’s knees
like melons. I like my knees,
so I don’t mention any of this to Bethany, who creeps
into my room at night to make seeds
from my bones. I know
she’d love to feed me to the lurkers
on the corner with their watermelon
slice-mouths, but there’s vodka in the watermelon, seeds
to plant, and Ellis now is looking bored, lurking low, knees
rising as waves creep in like only they know how.
A summer day is something like a watermelon,
Ellis says, digging trenches with her toe, my accomplice niece.
We’ve come to watch seagulls steal bread, to lurk
among the bathers in their underwear like creeps.
I can’t resist—I ask her what she means. You know,
she says. With all the little seeds.
When you spy people from a plane, they look like seeds,
not ants. Ants are always moving chunks of watermelon
back and forth; people know
a hundred thousand different ways to sit. Garrisons of knees
entrenched in sand, vines of sunscreen creeping
down dilapidated towers, and off in the moat, lurking
like assassins: hungry teenage eyes. They lurch and lurk
their way between the waves like seeds
lashed out by trebuchets, creep
around the curl of tides, get washed up like watermelon
rinds along the beach. Ellis always picks her knees
up when she runs. I taught her that, you know.
Her mom’s been riding waves again. I know
the signs: a look over the shoulder, something lurking
in the eyes. Less cogent declarations: Owls have knees,
you know. They just don’t use them. Seeds
have memories and you can train them how to grow. “Watermelon
Sugar” is a remix of a Motown song. Radiohead stole “Creep”
from Pat Metheny. She calls me a creep
for screening her calls, and she’s not wrong, but I know
what goes on. I am properly vigilant: “Watermelon
Sugar” could be their word for the juice. The voice lurking
into my kitchen from a number in Bulgaria perhaps seeds
cells of dealers here who break men’s knees
like melons. I like my knees,
so I don’t mention any of this to Bethany, who creeps
into my room at night to make seeds
from my bones. I know
she’d love to feed me to the lurkers
on the corner with their watermelon
slice-mouths, but there’s vodka in the watermelon, seeds
to plant, and Ellis now is looking bored, lurking low, knees
rising as waves creep in like only they know how.