I don’t want to bleed on a white couch. It wouldn’t be the first time. It happens throughout all time— as, I’m sure, every moment does.


I say nothing. She said that maybe my stuff with my father was because there were holes in my feelings for my mother. So, when it comes down to him mattering to me, it has more to do with her in the end. Yes.


As revealed flesh— green, hard, earthlike with an umbilical chord cut from dust, with an inside of nothing.


My mother has this seethrough expansive quality that I can live in as if I live inside her, and her skin floats somewhere so far in the distance.

I made watermelon soup, a great shabbos meal, in a pot— all red— watermelon, cherries, red apples, peaches, raspberries, and strawberries. The man who I made it for, Daniel, seemed not to care. He didn’t laugh with me or try to think, “is this a gimmick or gourmet?”


After having life become a little too watery, Chaya comes, and maybe that movement of stillness or trust echoes— life, real lust. I remember when I scared her with my seeing into her. How much control do we really have? How beautiful it is to look in the mirror and not see ourselves, but something larger, moving in some other way.

Golden Sun

Daniel seemed careless in his thought and speech. “The theme is hot and cold,” I said. I froze some fruits and melted the same ones, so we could compare. He said he wanted to get to know me, and when I offered him another way of thinking about something that had made him feel malignantly ignored by the power structures, he stopped me saying, “Let me have my story.” I tried to be tantalizing. I swiveled my torso and said, “I am attracted to you.” He went on talking about work as before. I kicked him out before the predetermined
time when, I imagine, he would, too ritualistically, have kissed me.

Empty Plastic Cups with Straws

Watermelon was free when everyone was accepted. There were many and the people danced and drummed. In fact, everything was there loved. I wished watermelon had more water in it. It is just so damn grainy the taste so fleeting before it turns to something else, elusive.


Forget about the river, the stream, certainly the banks. Forget about the blue and green, the ribbon, and the white. Forget about the dust and the ground + find your mother again at either end. I thought that I could love anything.

Flowers In Paintings

I get scared when I move, when I get too connected to thinking about riding him. Breathe. Breathe. Ah. It’s not about the person, this love.

Empty Plastic Cups with Straws

Watermelon was free. In fact, everything was. Do I deserve my spaciousness?

My mother is larger than what she seems + I am always surprised by her personality. I am living only in where she comes from.


“Watermelon is your color,” the clairvoyant says. “It’s something I have never seen before.” It’s a new color that has arrived on Earth. They equate this with unconditional love nowadays. You always had safe keeping here in little girls’ bedrooms and on their lunch boxes in the background of unicorns’ images. We welcome you.


Someone letting you look inside past the garden, past the pineapple, past where she passes away.


Emily Stern – “Watermelon” — 4 Comments

  1. Revealing, layer upon layer. The intricacies of relationship and familial ties to our own identification with a need to be loved and experience another’s presence, male or female, or both.That is what I see, but more…

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