She could eat a mango with her eyes closed
Her fingers well acquainted with the fruit's soft hairs
Then peel it back slowly with a sharp paring knife
As I watched, intrigued by how the smooth grain
Of the kitchen table matched the hues of her arm.
But this was one time, when the soft summer night's
breath exhaled long into the kitchenette
That I found her head down, her eyes withdrawn
To a breeze tossed curtain above her.
And I noticed her stomach swelling as a ripening fruit.
And knowing quite well that a seed separated from the tree
At such a young age could fall into another garden
And be fruitful. And this she knew, for her rough tan legs
Still remembered the back scratching at her when
In her old country, men would climb up and into
The trees, selfishly tearing a fruit from its mother.
But only once later in life did I glimpse the ghost
A dull red that broke from my sister's finger when once
She peeled a mango with the knife coming towards her.
The blood smearing across the orange