as children we ate watermelons over trash bagsin my aunt’s backyardfilled with so many black & blue-eyed crowsit stopped being a spell & they’d eat what fell between our fingers& our skin stayed onwe’d get yelled at for spitting seeds at each other                saliva thick with redwe made a war from the sweetest thingsthe flies made a mess of our dancingthe flies made a dance in our messesour mamas thanked God it was not the blood feareda watermelon’s vine would wrap itself around youif you fell asleep under them watching meteorsmelons make magic under midnight moonsI once grew watermelons that flowers could singif I sat there singingthe way my aunts break out into song     I mean beautifullike that the flowers would start movingI’m so free I make a river on both sides of my moutha fruit full of kinshipit once grew wild and bitter          in the Kalahari Desertthe grandmama of all the watermelons     the first watermy grandmamas share a bowl every Sundayand drip the juice on the floorbut never stain a solethe only fruit the dead can eat