My grandma used to tell me the only way to tell if a cantaloupe is sweet is bring it to your nose and smell it.

She would also tell me often I would one day be ripe enough for a man.

I recently brought a bag of melons home. She told me they were putrid. She didn’t smell them.





I made this book while trying to hold onto the ripeness of a feeling in its full expression, trying to sit comfortably in the confusion of not knowing whether the work is about intimacy, desire, pleasure, or longing, or the space between all those things. I often feel like ripe fruit, fragile, easily bruised. We carry each bruise in our bodies as  a mark of another thing pressed us.