“watermelon seed” by Kenneth Su

the executioner thrusts a broken boy under the guillotine,

fastens the lunette, and releases the blade. the crowd gasps

as his skull splits against tile and the blood splashes my dress.

it's the pink one, mother, do you remember? the same color as

watermelon flesh.

my fingers cling to a fraying hem, caressing the pulp

that has tinted the fabric. you used to make trips to

the town square, wearing nothing but a plastic smile and

a scarlet-stained dress. you would steal young watermelons,

sweet and sun-kissed, back from the market. we would carve

their craniums and bathe their eyes in brine-water jars,

knowing the seeds would rot but planting them anyway.

i wonder if they will survive; if they will breathe without

lamp-light and lullabies and love; if one of the jars broke,

fell off the shelf, as the men spat on your grave

and dragged me away. i imagine my severed head

crisscrossing intimate alleyways, bouncing on broken glass,

tumbling towards the weeping willow where i buried you.

i could be your tombstone, your watermelon seed.

he locks me up next, facing the green sky, dress fluttering in the wind,

teenage moths jostling to see the watermelon seed bloom. 

if i had the chance, i would sit on the cobblestone and

watch it grow. if i had the chance, mother, i would name it

after you.

Kenneth Su is a Chemical Engineering student from Chandler, Arizona. In his free time, he enjoys reading, writing, and exploring campus. Some of his life goals--in no particular order--are traveling the world, learning how to cross-stitch, and tending a vegetable garden.