Mankurad, Mussarat, Mangilar

Margao market mangoes...all.

There's something about these orbs, I tell you

Voluptuously seductive.

Flesh all gold and honeyed

Carrying inside them, the stories of a long, languid summer.

The seed, deep encrusted

like a precious gem inside its jewel ripeness.

Where did the one I'm holding, come from?

The one patiently waiting

for the knife's blade to come carve its heart

Ready to bleed its nectar out for me.

I haven't seen the hands that plucked it

Or the ones that watered its source.

And, the next year's Mankurat will come in its own time,

Finding its way to me

Like a baby thrust into a mother's arms

I shall hold its round body close to my chest

Draw deep from its perfumed being,

a breath filled with sweetness.

It hasn't yet taken form now, I know.

The sun's rays have not yet reached its little green self

The rains have not showered it with their surprising wetness

The wind has not yet cradled it in its folds

The hands that nurture that mighty tree

have not yet given of their generous care.

Next year, this heart will be aflutter

in summer's slow somnolence

The sweet promise of next year’s mango

is now, just an intent.