My Watermelon بَطّيختي

Poetry by Yasmin Kanaan
Photo by Crina Miriam Cretu

Spit the seed of a watermelon
into a ground of rubble
and see if it can still thrive...

I promise you,
... it will only come back more alive.

She reincarnates with every generational row
waiting for what’s inside her to swell and grow
heavy in reddish sweetness - we know -
the بَطّیخَة forms a hard green head to cope,
nature's choice of colour, behold!
A striped landscape stripped and groped
beneath it like ashy white layers of rope
breeding stubborn black seeds of no
rejecting bodily cleansing with septic soap
the بَطّیخَة rises proud - persistent with hope.

The man bites into her;
            to drain,
            to taste,

only to receive

f
  l
   o
     o
       d
          i
            n
               g

            bitter
        reminders

of tongue-walled separations,
a consequence of all possible violations –
his previous attempts to counterfeit replacements
for her                              is his
                fruitfulness                     barrenness
       her                                  his
                ripeness                           putrescence
       her                                  his
                innocence                        fraudulence

بَطّیخَة

بَطّیختي

Which came first-
the seed or the flower?

For
your voice,
                     is my heart
your beauty,
                      my art
your children,
                      my start.

(Submit your poem to thepoetryhood@gmail.com for a chance to be featured)