He bursts in with an armload of mangoes
in various stages of perfect, rotten, or too soft. One rolls to the floor and
without hesitation, he picks it up and bites in, luscious unwashed, juices dripping down his chin.
"It's warm from the sun," he says, "and the ground. I found a lot of these on the ground."

I still my tongue and watch him eat it whole, like he eats all of life.

I asked him recently if he thought I was crazy, as some do.
He said no, I want all the same things.
I wished I could tell him how I always washed my mangoes and wiped my chin,
I thought if I wore a sweater and a slip and a hat at the right times, life would turn out okay.

I'd like to call him, tell him how the wind is blowing hair across my face now.

Instead, I sit quietly, in the backwoods of Virginia
eating an unwashed, unpeeled mango
with the juices dripping down my chin.