October 31, 2018 >

October 31, 2018 >



by Megan de Matteo

for Joyce

It’s like carrying
the world at your
growing waist,
one foot creaking
up splintered steps,
to sit
in the middle
where the wood dips

when the boys were out back
and this was all
I could carve:

one spoon slicing
pink pulp
as if dipping into

butter on tongue,
mucous of seed;

they used to say
if you swallow one
it sprouts inside your stomach,
grows until the vine
crowns from calcified cranium,
wraps the brain in leaves,

their fine fur
like the fuzz on my baby

who shared watermelon
lunches with me,
and together,
we counted calories,
stayed under twenty-five pounds

of extra weight,
& slipped out from summer’s heat,

heat’s swelling ankles,

and into the cool of the basement
weeks before she came

where this watermelon

was all I could carve,
so we carved it,


Megan is a Baltimore-based poet and fiction writer. She was a finalist for the 2018 Public Poetry Prize, and her work won third place in LitQuake 's 2017 Writing Contest. She has a BA in Spanish from the University of Tennessee and an MA in creative writing from Lenoir-Rhyne University, Asheville. After traveling and teaching children throughout the United States, she now fundraises for AWP and sprinkles her food with Old Bay.