Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

—“Watermelons,” Charles Simic

I heft the perfect orb in one hand,
the size of a cantaloupe but
crocodile green with alligator stripes,
smiling at its smooth-firmness,
imagining the gifts inside.

And I find that I’m loath to cut
into it, which is silly. The temp’s
rising toward the century mark
again—perfect watermelon
weather.

But I’m transfixed by this globe
grown from seed, not shaped by
human hands, so perfect a piece
of art I’d pedestal it, write odes
to it, which I suppose I am,

promising myself that tomorrow
I’ll do it—take the big knife and halve
the sphere, take a spoon to it and spoon
its sweetness right into my mouth,
no plate, no napkin,

all that succulence settling onto
my tongue, swallowing summer
with perhaps a seed or two,
fruity lovingkindness eager to
sprout into pure joy.