Every time we run out of food

waiting for the pay cheque,

you come and bring a mango.

A gift wrapped in a brown paper bag


Every time

I unwrap its heaviness,

pressure its density.

Immerse the red, gold and green plumpness under running water.

Wash and wipe its curves into a shine.

I push away the resistance of the chunky stalk,

plunge the knife into orange depths,

quarter and slice it until the juices run to a pool on the plate.


Every time we sit in the kitchen eating mango.

Dive our teeth and lips into skin and flesh.

Sucking, chewing scraping the stone naked

until the fibres stick between our teeth, the juices drunk and licked.

With sticky fingers, mouth and chin,

the baby kicks

savouring the freshness of mango inside.