delicata

I
a squash, my thigh & the red cutting board.
the big knife & leaning to push it through
the flesh. the thwank, the pieces. the scooping
out the pulp & threads. squashes sew inside
themselves-- they make necklaces from their 
white-nail seeds. a knot of hair in the sink,
a handful in my fingers, i cup them & kiss
them before tossing the pale orange innards 
into the trash. a handful of salt on,
the scattering, the hush the grains make
as they fall on the grey pan. you say
next time we should slice them in half.
II
delicata squash the size of your jeep,
in the driveway, we use trowel & shovel 
to remove the muck. we have to work fast,
the sky turning murky & fog & grey. the flood,
a pot on the stove coming to a boil. we only
need one canoe though we make two. the soft 
sweet texture of uncooked squash, a yellow smell like 
daffodils. i tell you about the butternut 
squash soup that i'll make when everything
is over. we talk orange. we climb in 
the water craft as the first droplet falls.
water, rushing down our street, mailboxes
becoming buoys in the pouring. pulling
a blanket over us, the rain doesn't fill
our bow, we no longer hear it even. 
kissing each other in the bow, the squash 
grows back its other half, trapping us.
we tangle of necklace, we white seed.