I swallowed a seed and now it rises,
but I am broken,
so it cannot live.
As a child,
I ravaged watermelons mercilessly,
ate them quick like candy.
And their seeds—swallowing them,
my mother said, would birth
a million watermelons in me.
I swallowed a seed,
and now it grows green,
leafy hands and flowered veins.
how could I tell you
I want to go back, want to grow in reverse,
to curl up and become a seed.
How could I tell you
that when I throw up these words
they turn to flowers bleeding
from my mouth. How can I say
I’m home when I ache for the soil,
to emerge a body suddenly whole.