Adolescence | Kevin Prufer

[skudge]

The little sleep in the melon, the seeds
swaying on strings in the hollow of it,

rolled down from a brown bag onto the counter.
The overripe doze, the dream

beneath its skin: the sun. And not just that,
but the meat, the possibility

of light and glisten. Softening,

and sweet, the melon at rest
like a boy's dreaming head, like a shelter,

a house that is not a ruin yet, but will be

someday, or a boy asleep on the sofa,
the boy dreaming that now,

now the roof's caved in. Now the termites
are in the woodwork, now the house

is a shudder on stilts, now the water
is rolling, is rotting them away.

The melon, asleep as it always is,
the house crumbling to its knees on the beach

and the boy awash inside, knowing
some time, soon, yes,

knowing the light will find him here,
in the clasp of it, the cup

of the palms of his hands that open,

unstoppably, like a melon opens,
into a second age.