by Lauren Scharhag

like the summer days themselves
we chomp its pink sweetness

down to thin rinds /
short pale nights

doused with salt to draw out
a bit more juice

half-believing wives’ tales
about seeds implanting themselves in our bellies 

making of our spines and throats a stake
hairy leaves unfurl on tongues

unquenched, we reach
for the next green orb

split us open. it’s taken root
in my duodenum

darkness calling to darkness
unable to distinguish

my depths
from the earth’s.


[Lauren Scharhag (she/her) is an associate editor for GLEAM: Journal of the Cadralor, and the author of thirteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 200 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, and multiple Best of the Net, Pushcart Prize and Rhysling Award nominations. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com]