We ate with our hands as the Bengali woman taught us.
It was late at night and loud with honking taxis in the heat.
I don’t think I was remotely hungry, but it is rude not to eat.
Even more rude if there are people starving down the block.
After rice and roti, she gave us watermelon.
But India was bananas and mangoes to me.
Watermelon meant the fourth of July back home.
For barbeques and the picnics of people who wear sweaters at night
and drive home on quiet streets.
Tonight I know that watermelon was made for India.
It was a clean chance at hydration.
It was all over my face.
I swallowed the seeds, and I saw how badly the watermelon
would like to populate the earth.
Just so the kids dying from holy rivers
would have something sweet to quench their thirst.