Mia Mango,
Ripe to a family
Of thistle and weeds.
Fruitful in her skin,
Smooth,
Hairing like a new
Born.
Twinning mangoes
At a young age
Grow wise at a sun
Seen soft by a sister
Rooted above.
Mia Mango,
Core as solid as trust,
Truthful in sight.
Sprung from the depths
Of stationary sand traps.
Beached in the back-tracking
Of a wave.
Kissed,
Salty in wind on a sour day.
Shaded by I,
The Sequoias.
The tall in striking
Passion.
Mia Mango,
Grip of a hand,
Perfection in buds.
Blending of no bias,
No sound of a killing joy.
Taste of sweet lust
In a choking hour,
Washed,
Soaked into my skin
Is the juice of your
upbringing.
Soaked into my lips
Is the juice of a
Night in safety.
A night where no
Dreams sever short
In climax to the sound
Of you,
Snapping like a thick
Branch to a passing,
Breaking to the swift
Line of teeth that is
That of the midnight
Hunter.
That which is guided
Is no different in want.
Silent,
Closing in like banks
Of fog in the whistling
Of a death.
Mia Mango,
Grown from horrors
Of drought to a lovers
Tiring clutch.
You,
Sister of twinning mangoes,
I bite you strengthening all wonder till
You are all that is
Inside me.
Place you in the
Stitching that hovers
Over this chemical imbalance.
Pocket buldging out
By the thump of this
Pure nut,
I will plant your grace
In this lover’s garden
And never be without
In another sunrise.
This perfect fit of senses,
Rejoicing.
Mia Mango,
My Mango.
