Zeke Shomler

That Summer, My Father

spit the seeds of cantaloupes
off every porch; I watched them grow

sweet fruits. This is how I know a body
is capable of change: the swollen ovary,

the severing and joining of parts. My mouth
was wet with melon-flesh, my fingers

stained with berries, overripe. These, our ancestors
called service, knowing what it meant

to give. My mother called them
sarvas, which to me meant save us, or sometimes

starve us, depending on the lightness
of the day. Even then, no language

could detain me. In the evenings, I felt my shadow
melt into the shadows of the trees.

Zeke Shomler earned a Combined MA/MFA from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. He now teaches high school math. His poems have appeared in AGNI, Folio, Modern Language Studies, and elsewhere.