Watermelons grow into shapes
as children, becoming soft squares
made easier to keep in a fridge.
Maybe our children will grow
into rooms, the press of objects
leaving imprints on their rinds, each
a story they didn’t know they’d bear until
their skin becomes a clafoutis
splitting with raspberry bedsores.
Unless the vine is severed,
their bodies are bonsai.
Kristin Eade is a writer and editor from Seattle, Washington. She has an ardent love for words, especially those that need a good edit, and enjoys daydreaming, playing with cats, and being in nature. One of her greatest accomplishments is memorizing all the lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody.