The watermelon cracks open with ripe ease, deep red and iceberg crisp
After the knife’s gentle slice. I leave the strawberries whole, unable to cut them
Due to their just-fermented softness, grateful that their life’s end happened
With some sweetness left on my tongue. Outside the kitchen, the sun patchworks
The backyard into a sick yellow, and truthfully, I hate grass. I want to
Rip up all this useless, vain-green carpet and plant a garden, want to eat
Something from it and make a home where fellow creatures can feast, but
The property manager forbids. I hang a bird feeder off the grill because there are
No trees, let the seeds fall where they may, watch thistle bloom and stretch to embrace
The stained cement patio as days grow hotter. A house finch dips his cherry face
Into feed. When he finishes, I toss my strawberry tops below his copper altar
To be eaten—or decompose. Once, my neighbor chucked old slices of pizza
Onto our shared lawn, and Canadian geese bit each other’s faces and wings
(Even their own fledglings) for greasy crust.             It was so funny and terrible,
And it made me think that maybe I don’t want to die—Rather,
I’m not sure how to keep living this life. Watermelon used to be sweeter.
There used to be more time for it to ripen on a vine. I cradle the rind in my hand,
Unsure if the birds would accept this offering, but my doubt only lasts a second.
I throw the white, wet smile out the door to rest in the grass, where it lies
Happy to be left to the ants.

Chel Campbell (she/they) is a poet from Sioux Falls, South Dakota whose work appears in trampset, Pidgeonholes, Midway Journal, The MacGuffin, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere. In 2021, she completed an English M.A. at the University of South Dakota where she taught literature and composition and read poetry for South Dakota Review. They have been a stay-at-home parent since the pandemic began. You can find her on Instagram (@hellochel) and Twitter (@swell_chel) for updates on her forthcoming work in Rogue Agent and SWWIM.