Cantaloupe

We played house:
like French maids, and
finer gentile American folklore;
like people with nowhere to go,

and no need to worry
about how much cash we had,

and we packed the car full of
grocery bags, paper and plastic
crinkling the whole drive home
and it never once occurred to us
to be green about it.

I remember the shape your hand
took while carrying the cantaloupe
inside, remembering sense-memory
of the dappled skin scratching its dry
scalp against the palm of your hand,
the way you carried it carefully, the
way you smiled slightly when you
noticed how I noticed every
single god-given movement that you
made that day,

like the fold of your
coat hanging from the back of a chair
after we had finished stocking the kitchen,
disposed of the bags, rearranged our
cloths until there was nothing between
us, save the knife we used to break that
cantaloupe skin, or carve out chunks to be fingered
into each others mouths, or the sweet-salt
of fruit aftertaste wasted on our sleeping
teeth later that night when daylight tossed
itself aside for a slumber with your
leg laid limp against mine.