take a bite of the watermelon boy 

Brendan Le

after Ren Hang 

nobody touch me. my slender frame hangs 

from the silicone edge      of the tub, draped     like a towel used

by the whole production      crew of one. the faucet loosens      pooling warm bubbles 

against my wet       glistening skin, brighter       under stage 

lighting. i’ll slick back coils of black stuck to my forehead

and the man behind the camera will say i want you 

to line the scarlet pink meat of this fruit up with your mouth. 

seeds trickle onto my bottom lip, drops of juice coagulating 

on my fingers. slowly my mouth encloses around the slice to pleased 

noises and film roll clicking again and again and if this is when he’s convinced 

i am the most striking subject, tight muscle and tendon contorted in the bathroom

with rind masking my features and translucent red dripping from my jaw, 

perhaps someday watermelon might taste good to me.

About the writer