My father is hosting the final picnic.
                    He rolls a melon back and forth
on the slate table to steady it

and slice, each piece bleeding
                    onto a white plate. The coals turn
gray but still flicker and burn, with raw

meat slung on top of the grill, oozing
                    blood red to clear. In the river
bordering the grove, a lone man paddles

his arms, stomach pressed
                    to a blue surfboard.
Black and white ripples

radiate from him while boats knock
                    against the pier. The children
gather their Frisbees from grass,

their volleyballs and racquets, appearing
                    and disappearing
in bright shirts like confetti.

Their voices rise and fall. It is late.
                    The sun shines, but not
for much longer. The golden hour

has begun. For a moment
                    the moss-covered trees glow
lime green, frozen in their looming

heights. My father: white shirt,
                    gray pants, silver wristwatch,
glasses. He always cut the melon.

The plates are ready, the food
                    is hot, the watermelon cold
and seedless. And our lives,

for a moment, are an untouched
                    meal: perishable, and delicious,
one we’ve barely begun to taste.

To celebrate National Poetry Month and in appreciation of the many cancelled book launches and tours, we are happy to present an April Celebration: 30 Presses/30 Poets (#ArmchairBookFair). Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.