The mangos
had been picked
by beautiful pagan people
who’s souls are entwined
with ritual magic,
Jesus ripe blasphemies
and ancient spirit fantasies.
The juices were making the
knife handle sweet and slippery
and I swallowed a smile
with every other piece shorn
from the leathery peel,
pulpy strings catching in my teeth.
The golden fruit was a
summer tradition growing up.
My father would tell us stories
of his time as a soldier,
serving the colonial government
in the jungles of Mozambique,
while cutting off pieces of the pulpy fruit
for me and my brother.
He called it, monkey food,
on account of the Macaques
who would regularly be seen
in the trees eating the ripe treasure.
The wild things would bark and cry
through out the day and night
and were known to throw
the chewed and hardened seed
at the soldiers below.
This made them justifiable
target practice.
He talked in a voice
that was reminiscent
of hardship shared
amongst comrades
who developed friendships
that were somehow eternal
in the midst of temperance.