Watermelon Seeds

I have never felt you, but I saw your beady blue
transparency in the hand of a stranger.
She drained you and the mucous,
she strained you just to have you,

and I do not know you but I feel you.
And I wonder if you are the same,
or if you are even you,

and in this mood I am careful, and thick.

I dreamed about curious habits and
watermelon seeds; slick, black beginnings
buried deep in moist protein.
I woke up, choking on raw meat, trying
to swallow your well-being.

And I have not held you, but every day
I feed you,
and water you
and let you grow,

because, although I do not know you,
I want you.

If I Did Not Write

If I did not write, I would
have
been sympathy for
family.

If I did not write, they could have
cried on
their partner’s shoulders
about how they could have helped.
Or,
if they could have.

If I did not write,
a rope might not hang so loose;
a ground may not be hollow;
a sister
may miss another sister’s voice.

Instead,
I become ferocious.
Ravenous.
I let ink seep out from under
bitten fingernails to
stain swollen
pages of life.