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.