To Grow a Square Watermelon
My father was raised in a small crate
and has always liked it there.
We sit around the crate and talk to him
through air holes
that to him must look like stars.
Fruit, when grown to conform to boxes,
becomes stackable
and stationary.
When we remove the lid to feed him
and to show him how much we’ve grown,
he squints, ingests quickly and quietly,
asks to be nailed back in.
The fruit requires no special diet
to ensure retention of shape.
Sometimes we try to pry
the walls apart and splay it open
encourage him to stretch his limbs
but he clenches
his eyes shut
his knees to his chest
his white-knot fists
and does not speak until we reconstruct the crate.
The cube-fruit is expensive
and sold as a delicacy or a gift.
He listens to our living
the room sounds
proudly identifies our patterns
He hears the television and cheers for the Dodgers
reads a small bible when the brightest daylight
speckles his interior
and we place bets on the day
he’ll want out.
The fruit must be harvested before it is ripe
and is usually inedible.
