mangos.

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.


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