you once dreamed
of a melon
and the boy
who butchered it
with a ballpoint pen
as though he was carving out
the back of the neck
of the white man
who killed his father
long ago on the
Nebraska prairie

but now those
melons
sit neatly in a room
under the glow of
ultraviolet lamps
aside the petri dishes

and you watch contently
as the whirring meters
pump plasma into them

and yes
you can feel it inside
an eyeball can be peeled
you say
but not like a grape
and anyway

melons should not be tampered with
those small citadels of virtue
wisdom and power
much too much
like us
when we sleep