The Watermelon Woman (1996)
- Kinsman Quarterly

- Jan 23
- 1 min read
by Hailey M. Young

I do not know you,
yet I feel you
dive into my veins
to find the deepest red.
We are the same,
like distant poppies
connected by
a wind-blown seed.
They consume me,
get high on my mortality.
Now they do the same
to you,
my brother in arms
you cry out, bleed out
covered only by a strip
of gauze.
I see the phantom limbs,
ghosts still living,
shell of a bomb,
shell of yourself.
Hold fast.
Weather the storm.
Collect the rain
in your palms,
satisfy your thirst.
Do what you must.
Just don’t let them
take
your last breath.





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