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