If you extract the compact planet,
roughly sketched with jungle, wetlands,
I pick a knife with which to split it
and you put back the jams and ketchup.
The substantial rind is very chilly,
the flesh wet cotton candy cleanly
parted on the pressured edge to mirrored
slabs of seeded red, undersown with more
seeds that face eviction by your fork.
I like watching you at work: one dangles
from a tine, expelled and glossy black,
hanging by a tendril of thin pink pulp till
you flick it with your index finger
expertly at the sink. Plink.
The Paris Review