My mother cracks watermelon into halves
By: Esther Sadoff
scoops out the center until its flesh pales to white.
Later sips the cool liquid from the rind.
She eats cherries by the handful,
cups orange and clementine skins
in the shadow of the TV, splits pistachios
and scatters shells across the table.
She’s always in the yard, unclogging some obstruction.
I show her videos of flooded backyards being drained,
the water sputtering and descending with a jolt.
She fears those raucous waters, the rocking of a boat.
Panics as my father pulls in and out of the dock.
She rushes home over the slippery path,
watches for fear the boat has gone crooked again.
She cracks open a watermelon for me
as if I only came for its sweetness, the gem of its red heart.
Esther Sadoff is a teacher and writer from Columbus, Ohio. Her poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Pidgeonholes, Red Ogre Review, Santa Clara Review, Wild Roof Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Roanoke Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, among others. She is also a poetry reader for Passengers Journal.