Papaya Seeds

The clouds once again settled into their undisturbed drizzle

that will leave everything wet for the coming months. 

I remember this because even our home became damp,

and I could hear my mother’s voice as she cut

the papaya she brought home from my grandfather

as something fresh, something blooming. The seeds disclosed 

with indifference, as the fruit split open, an almost

human-like quality I couldn’t place my finger on, 

even as I picked one out and rolled it in circles on my

thumb, trying to peer through their black flesh

to see the life inside. There were so many of them 

I became overwhelmed. Days like this I wonder 

if we all devour a secret pleasure

from pretending we are just bodies, waiting 

to sprout from the womb.

Listen to the rain

plummeting outside now, pulling the ground beneath us.

This is how I want to love: wet and sorry, 

with my knees digging into soft soil, sinking

one seed at a time. Some could call this drowning.

 

Though I could feel that I was supposed to do something 

with this life held in my hand, 

all I knew was my mother’s voice, standing —
coming near.