If you were here,
I would show you the canteloupe
that my grandmother never meant to grow.
It just showed up by the rose bushes,
like a mistake, some bastard child
that sprouted like an insatiable seed
thrown in with the compost
It took root,
and the canteloupe is no larger than a baseball,
the runt of the whole world's litter of fruit.
I would give it to you,
pass it into your hands, the way I do
with everything else. My feeble, crusted offerings:
striving for sweetness.
-Gillian Sze
