By The Watermelons
Inspired by Elizabeth Bradfield’s Touchy
I sold my soul to the devil
For a picket fence and a
tax refund and a
stimulus check and a
used car with a hundred thousand miles–
more miles than I will ever drive.
And now my soul
Is not where souls belong.
When he killed her, they sent her body
in a pine coffin wrapped in plastic,
back home,
to the icy waters of the Atlantic
and the heat of an honest embrace.
My soul is buried in grandma’s garden,
right by the watermelons
that never germinated.
It is stumped there
Under the scorching sun that
makes the skin tingle and then
blister and burn.
I reach out to this little
soul of mine when I am feeling
particularly resentful for her absence.
I just need to see if she is still there,
even if half dead, because
out here I am half dead, too.
I pray fervently, dramatically,
as a last resource, just so maybe
someone can tell me
That one day it will all make sense.
And it will rain in my grandma’s desertic hometown,
a downpour that will drench me
head to toe, and will wash
the crosses in the cemetery until their marble
glimmers in the sun.
Then, I will dig my broken soul up
from my grandma’s garden, and
mourn when I see her bones.
I’ll patch her up and stick her back
in my hollow body, and
everything will grow within me,
Including the watermelons that
Never germinated.