Icy Fruit

On a stinking hot day in grade four,

our teacher read us a poem
about icy watermelon.

She tormented us with its words.

Sweat ran down

our backs—

we groaned, thinking

of the cold fruit in our hands,

the juice running down our chins.

Instead we sat cross-legged

on the itchy carpet floor,

gathering pins and needles.

Anna Jacobson