The Mango

i pass the mango between my hands,

pressing my fingers into the skin,

red, green, shining,

will they sink or stay sliding —

skating across the top.

i pick the knife out from my drawer,

pierce the outside with silver,

will it be right inside?

ripe inside?

succulent, sun coloured,

will i suck the skin from the start,

cutting it open makes me think about him.

how i look at him lounging,

smoking with his eyes closed,

freckles against pale skin,

a face that i know —

i tried not to know.

i tried not to cut the mango

feel it soft, warm, open,

he’s gasping in my hands,

he’s curled around me,

cause i didn’t want him to leave,

i looked at him and i felt the thing.

my mouth moves,

makes soundless shapes,

air pockets —

the fruit falls away from my blade

it’s green inside —

i check my phone for the time.