Cantaloupe as a cure-all, or how I know my mother

When the bones settle
these metals we are made of
finally loosen

I long to untie
the velvet bag
of river stones
residing in her back

piling piling

Her voice the first time
my cotton undies crusted
with a red foreign ache
she scooped sherbet-
colored melon into a bowl

Now eat.

“Write me a nice poem,” she says
“something nice and understood.”

What’s left?
The daffodils on my coffee table
muscular stems, belled snouts
the reason you gave me to spring:

Persephone has returned.