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Limits To Watermelon

My back strains against your weight,
striped dirigible slipping from my grasp.
In July you are chunks of pink meat
dissolving on my tongue, cool liquid
that squirts down the back of my throat,
dribbles on my chin.

Cut into halves, you are an arc,
a smile, the scarred runners
of an old rocking chair.

You are summer and sun,
the earth after rain,
memories of childhood
when I thought each seed
spit out would sprout
into another juicy fruit.

Now I know there are limits
to watermelon. I place
my arms around your girth,
lug you to the table. 

First published in The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, June 6, 1998

Rose Street

I am tired of refrigerated air,
the artificial hum 
behind glass closed to summer.
I want to go back to Rose Street,
to hot, humid nights, windows open
to barking dogs, quarreling neighbors,
the scent of honeysuckle and roses.

I want to know tongues again,
tasting, testing, hear words
that unfold like flower petals.
I want to feel my skin, damp
and glistening, face rubbed
raw by the stubble of chin. 

But that was Rose Street long ago
before the thorns took over.
Now wild, twisted branches
surround my solitary tower
where I sleep between cool sheets,
knowing no prince will ever come.

Return to Beach Haven, New Jersey

Each summer I feel the pull of the sea
and like a migratory bird must return.
Yet there is always that moment of fear
as I stand at the water’s edge,
white salt foam licking my feet
as they sink
into the inconstant sand;
cold water numbing my skin
before I plunge
through the breakers to beyond
where the waves gently lift and swell.

I know my father felt it too,
that last summer, going back
despite the long journey.
He had to see, hear, smell,
know the sea again. I watched
as he walked with great effort
along the beach; his ribs
resembling the sun bleached shell
of an abandoned ship; his hair
succumbing to silver
in his sixty-second year, his eyes,
pain filled and intense,
searching the horizon.

Tea In an English Garden

In the English garden
my friend, Nina,
serves tea with milk,
scones, sliced cucumbers,
thin slices of beef and ham.

Tall hedges give us privacy. 
Pink and yellow roses nod 
in neatly arranged rows 
as Nina explains about 
the small glass hothouse needed 
to grow tomatoes in England.

I think of the mill town 
where I grew up in Pennsylvania. 
Tomatoes ripened indolently 
in the August sun.
Polish, Slovak and Italian women,
round faces flushed
from hanging laundry,
leaned over wire fences 
exchanging gossip.

First published in Writing on the Desk, WPWP, University of Pittsburgh, 1994

© Copyright 2000 (except where otherwise noted),  Anita Byerly.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.