Winter 2007 [Issue No. 11]
Talking of Mangoes
are the summer. Ripe with heat, light and desire,
juices running down the chin like sweet
tears sweeter than any other.
There is no time then to look out and feel
the heat burn up the black road or call
to the bent man who sits by its side like a fond
lover ,who will never sin again
or wish for rain.
In the summer a child learns to run, then walk,
then talk, then to measure her shoulders
against the easiest window sill. Then
the child grows so tall that the summer's broad hips
are too small for her laughter. And one night
it rains, actually rains. Old trees kneel
down as the wind comes barreling by, right
out of the sky's throat. The summer
is forgotten, as the child marvels
at just how cold it can feel
when a raindrop splashes down on her feverish
face. How cold. She that was born
into the lap of another summer. With mango
nectar in her smile. On the other hand the sea
could rise any day. In the summer, or after.
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