Down by the bay

Where the watermelons grow,

Back to my home,

I dare not go. . .

            Traditional

I purse my lips and spit black

seeds, drum the water

melons till their hearts beat

back. Mosquitos vex me none,

I’m easy in my blood and thick-

skinned. I linger saltily, dusk-bound

and free from wagging fingers

and the circles she’d ring round me

if I returned. The fancies she wants

to plant in my head, well,

I grow my own. I’ve stared at the sun

all day because she told me not to,

and now I can’t go home. Or I’m holding

my little hands up to my eyes

and she’s pretending not to see me.