Summer belonged to the mangoes first—
golden, sun-fat, splitting at the seams,
dripping down wrists, pooling in the hollows
of our hands— a crime scene of sweetness.
We ate without caution,
let the sugar gloss our lips,
let the gold run—drip, smear,
something like hunger, something like greed.
Your mother hated the mess.
Scrubbed your fingers raw,
tut-tutted about sticky floors,
the bad habits ripening in you.
But mine—mine only laughed,
pressed my palms between hers,
kissed the sugared wounds like an oath,
said, let some things be wild, love.
That summer, we outran the heat,
split the dusk with our honey-lunged laughter,
left fingerprints gilded in the sun.
And when I told my grandfather I liked mangoes,
he arrived the next morning with a whole harvest,
grinning like he had outwitted the season itself.
My mother still laughs,
but I scrub my hands clean now.
Some things stain.
Some things don’t.
Now the mangoes taste sour,
Maybe i plucked them before summer arrives,
Or I was made to.