“what the angels eat,” by Tyree Daye - The New Yorker

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Audio: Read by the author.

as children we ate watermelons over trash bags in my aunt’s back yard
filled with so many black & blue-eyed crows
it stopped being an omen & they’d eat what fell to the ground
& our skin stayed on

we’d get yelled at for spitting seeds at each other
   saliva thick with red
we made a war from the sweetest things
the flies made a mess of our dancing
the flies made a dance in our messes

our mothers thanked god it was not the blood feared
a watermelon’s vine would wrap itself around you
if you fell asleep under them watching meteors
melons make magic under midnight moons

i once grew watermelons that flowers could sing
if i sat there singing
the way my aunts break out into song   i mean beautiful
like that the flowers would start moving

i’m so free i make a river on both sides of my mouth
a fruit full of kinship
it once grew wild & bitter
  in the kalahari desert

the grandmother of all the watermelons   the first water
my grandmothers share a bowl every sunday
and drip juice on the floor
but never stain a sole
the only fruit the dead can eat

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January 11, 2021 at 06:01PM
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“what the angels eat,” by Tyree Daye - The New Yorker
"eat" - Google News
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