When I was a child, I cursed like a child.
“Damn watermelon seeds,” those little black progeny
buried in the dripping red flesh of my summer.
Laughing, I snapped green rinds like ribs.
Crack ‘em, Doc.

They grow inside you if swallowed, those seeds,
so I, in adolescent daring, gulped one back.
My defiance took root in acid.
Leafy tendrils swirled upward in smoke when I puffed
my first American Spirit.
Foreign fingers traced
the stems now bulging under my thin stomach skin.
Forbidden fruits grew in tandem with
their rebellious gardener- my sin sprouted well in
a ribcage oft-encircled by fervid, forceful arms.
The stalks in my throat were watered by whiskey.

Now, obscenities have lost their thrill.
Dirty words cannot help but mimic their source;
in this parity there is no thrill, only dull repetition.
Shoots grow thick from my fingers.
I can no longer hold my glass.
My daring has outgrown me.
Open me up, Doc, I’m done.