To my Soul Boy. You know who you are. You know you were there.

the mango

i cradle her in my hands
the jungle where she was born gave her skin these colors
you only have to look at her to feel the heat and hear the inceasant sounds of life there.
you cringe as you watch the reckless way i cut the mango in the palm of my hand,
but i have no fear of the blade.
your love makes me fearless.
i watch your eyes as my fingers lift a dripping yellow cube to your lips,
reconnecting you with your roots,
your blood.
your life.
my finger tasting the flavor of the sensual darkness of your mouth,
as you stand next to me in this tiny kitchen in washington, dc.
on this winter night,
the cold swirls in the dark past the window.
we are both as far away from where the mango was born as would be possible.
but our spirits are there,
if only for the second that you close your eyes
as the bright taste is reunited with your lips and your soul.



All writing contained in this website 1998-2004 by Betty A. Parker

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