MANGOES
By Almira Astudillo Gilles

Over a tablecloth rubbed clean
of its former gaiety
I reach for a mango,
sunburst orange flesh
cradled in a golden crucible
sublime in ripeness.

My mother rose early
to pluck the favored fruit
leaving me in bed
to dream a little longer.

Nothing comes between me
and my mango.
A fly has been waiting
on a cracked saucer
feet clicking with anticipation.

It is hot in the room
my eyelids sweat
as I scrape the mango
down to its bitter skin.

There is more
than my mother’s mottled hand
presenting another.

This act, captured in
a hollow space of morning
transcends all:
rising above the heat
the captivity of years
the ambiguity of love.

© Almira Astudillo Gilles

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