Cut it open, reveal its
pure heart, and you see
in that dripping watermelon

center how aptly it is named.
And though its label promises
“seedless,” you spot the pale

seedlets dotting the interior
like little buttons. No black
seeds, but, of course, it has

to have grown from something,
as all pure hearts do. You regret
your greed on this hot day

that propelled you to cleave
this open heart, laying it bare
to the air and your waiting

spoon that hovers only briefly
before diving into that perfect
flesh, and savoring that flavor

before swallowing, adding,
at least metaphorically, a bit
of that pure heart to your own.