off the vine

salt on watermelon
and her

she is left wondering
if the swallowed seed
is sprouting in her
hollowed-out gut
fertilized by the doubt
the worry of being
inadequate

and when it sprouts
when it blooms
grows ripe and ready
to be plucked, carved
into like a summer
jack-o-lantern

rotted fruit spills
onto the table
over the slicing hands
of the harvester

spoiled

the salt sits unmoved
there isn’t enough
in the shaker
to cover up this mess
this wasted effort

save the seeds