Gift

When you hold
a slice 

of freshly cut
red melon 

to my lips,
I drink 

as much
as I eat 

And though we give
the same name 

to every incarnation
of this vine 

the taste of this one
is specific 

(for it must carry
the savory 

hint of metal, 
the particular salt 

of your forefinger
and thumb) 

to which I say
Give me 

the whole thing
the history of it

If there is a war
buried 

in this gift
I’ll eat that too 

Like most fruit
it holds its own 

water,
which once was 

rain or glacier
or dew extracted 

and gathered
over time 

after a massacre
of elk 

or the slow
extinction of fish 

Let me
kiss it all back 

into your tongue
to say 

Look
I’m real 

in a world
full of figments 

I didn’t know grief
could cool 

a fever body
but here 

you and I are
taken 

in each other’s mouths 
becoming 

the temperature
of the sea