I pull cucamelons off his vines,
each hiding like pills from a child.
Three in the bucket, one in my mouth
I swish through the lattice, searching for more.
He stands tall, a zucchini god, pulling weeds.
We are muted, quiet enough to hear the cucamelons rip
under my teeth and his just-smoked breath, syncopated
between my crunches.
And he says, take this
basil and plant it for me
take these lusty cucumbers
I don’t like and eat them for me.
And instead I take this moment for myself,
stripy socks crumbed with soil
and strawberries bloated with the unsaid.
At the end of his garden, a glass pumpkin,
stem curled over the netting,
his breath trapped inside.
We are at opposite ends of his garden bed,
our roots straightened out, spidery
but never touching.