She did not love him
For the dozens of roses
That she tripped over
In the hall,
But for the melons
That he always brought,
Five honey rocks for two bucks
From the back of a truck.

She marked their travels
By the melons,
Honeydews
On the leaves beneath the birches
In the Canada of late August,
Casabas and Persians
From somewhere ~
Expensive
In New York at Christmas time.

Galia melons,
Perfume at every meal
In the heat of Portugal,
Ice cold papayas
After the flaming mouths
Of Scotch Bonnets.

Buying a watermelon
From a farmer in Spain,
He made friends.
Soon they were
Tasting figs,
Dates from the palms.

That night,
The cold, red sweetness
Bursting in their mouths,
Juice dripping for their chins,
They spit the seeds
Into the pots of geraniums,
Stayed up half the night
Talking,
Swatting mosquitos
Warding off malaria
(Tongue in cheek).

There was a ritual.
He would say,
“Sweetheart, cut me a melon.”
She would give him the eye.
He would cajole her
With his crooked smile,
“Ah, Woman, be sweet.
Please just cut me a melon.

Baby, just be sweet.”