Cantaloupe
dustin king
I pointed to my head &
you pointed to your head.
Our melons. Teeth like seeds in our smiles,
slit fruit. A frequency. Grey. Musky.
Trash smell. Soft give on the days of parfaits
and cold soups. Before we were frost-hardy.
When we were free radicals, trellis-clinging.
We grew old and forgot we were
middle-aged, infinitesimal in earth years,
a mealyworm, mosquito. Thin olivine rim.
Our grandfather, pocket-knife out, salt-shaker
upturned, would have grinned, or
grimaced reading our minds (melons)
as if there was any great mystery.
Dustin king
would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When nothing good is playing, he teaches Spanish and exchanges dreams with loved ones in Richmond, Va. His poems pop up in New Letters, Prism Review, The Tusculum Review, Marrow Magazine, and other rad spots. He is a poetry reader for Sublunary Review and co-curates the poetry and performance event "Yodel Farm." His first chapbook “Last Echo” is now available from Bottlecap Press. His second "Courteous Gringo" is forthcoming from Seven Kitchens Press.