Women,
I think,
have a special relationship
with squash.
I love squash,they say.
All varieties.
The acorn, the pumpkin, the spaghetti.
Perhaps butternut the most.
They wait to see how you’ll
run your hands over a squash.
The curves, the knotty bits, the flecks of dirt.
Just as they study their own bodies
in the mirror.
Stripped bare,
Stand and stare,
Run hands over every curve, mole, and hair.
How can you ever know
if a squash was a good one
before it is dissected & consumed?