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Down to the Rind This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

garden-grown watermelon
grows in the rows of your mind
I suppose
eat me down to the rind

and spit matte black seeds
into the rotting soil
of your attic vine

dripping juice has no weight
in the origami napkins
disintegrating into pretty
emptiness, in your
soft, shredding grasp

you are all gorgeous red
in watery pulp
you don’t last within
my two bony rows

the green of your rind eyes
belongs to Earth
She can make you infinite.

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