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.