It is never easy when the bumper
Season of mangos comes to an end.
We look at mangoes, like we look
At a woman’s breasts, starting with her
Cleavage. We look at the color of the dress,
Yellow and green, streaked around in mosaic paint.
And we keep looking at the mango
Wondering, if we should let it fall,
Or pluck it right now. Carpe diem making sense.
And yet we leave it, procrastinating,
Until we wake up one morning
And the mango has chunks of bite
Marks all over it. You realize a woman
Who’s 35 years, comes with bite-marks all over the body
And the thin peel broken, long ago,
And still the last mango, is worth
The wait. That delicious ripened yellow
Pulp, slapping against your mouth
Making the first bite even more breathtaking.
The last mango, even with bite marks
Gave me a new beginning in life.
And the best thing about that mango
Was not the taste, or the color, or the juiciness,
Only the beauty, of how the seed
Remained, still untouched