Your skin, the color of the early morning sunlight.
Your taste, sweet yet sublime.
As I bite into your flesh, I forget everything
just like how the light forgets the night.
Your tree is groovy, however mighty.
Your fruit, the dream of every honey bee.
As I savour every drop of your juice, I forget my name,
like we're in some cliché first love story.
Your seed, caller of more mangoes this season.
Your cheek, red, orange, sometimes yellow.
As I devour your entirety, I forget the promise of storms,
only remembering your sweetness from now on.

The sunlight winks from behind the umbrella of leaves and mangoes overhead. It tickles your cheekbones like the first, second, thirtieth good morning kiss. Your sandals are worn. A woven basket rests heavy on your hip, in your hands.

Your fingers, slender and worn by the earth, trace the contours of my face the way they search for meaning in a dictionary. Gravity. We inch closer. Have you always had a widow’s peak? Your hand finds it rightful place over my heart. I kiss you for the thirty-first time today. You taste of plantains and milk. You smell of sweat and the sun. My hand relishes in the traces of heat on your cheek.

One mango drops from your possession. Unripe, but soon to be opened up and worshipped as it is meant to be. Your fingers grasp the yellowing heart and press it against my lips. I rest against the trunk and sink my teeth into it. Liquid sunrise trickles down your wrist onto my blouse. The leaves create shadow puppets on the ground, the story of two young fools swaying in the shade of a tree.

I've lied
but don't we all?

As we grow,
a part of us dies.

Like an onion skin
layers of lies envelop me
They said that I've changed,
yet I don't know which way

I've played pretend,
tried masks and
eventually forgot
which one was
truly mine.

overarching newborn smiles
yellow sun on green leaves
greenish-yellow chrysoberyl
oasis of the summertime

the promise of a dozen flowers
to monkeys of golden branches
summer's sins would be redeemed
by salted raw mango slices

the albums of the memories
echoes of a simpler past
I'm crazily hung on its arms
and cuddling the longed leaves

the scent of summer mangoes
pulls us closer to the seed
when eye closes for a dream
for the emerald is like a magnet.

the rooftop of boyhood-life
shines among fallen leaves
the treasure hunt for another bite
with bees,and monkeys;crazy sunlit,

the stories of my old granny
emerge the flavored palette
within mother queen's dishes~
the golden salty slices

the taste of magnifera indica
connects the lands of our subcontinent
The secular religion of our nations
the lesson is not complicated,

the gift of Indian summer
wrapped among jade leaves
decadent whiff and scent,
loops me into time travel,
to youth, when all was well;

the last slice of the seasonal bite
portraits of unheard prattle
of mighty trunk and the poet
under the shades of nature's battle.

It takes me back
It pulls me close
To itself, I cannot leave
ln my dreams
While I dose
The summer scent of mango tree

I remember well
When we were young
My friend and I hung on its arms,
Cuddling the leaves.
Now remain
Just memories, echoes of a simpler past

The flowers promised
June was close
Summer's sins would be redeemed
By the childhood paradise
Salted raw mango slice

Overarching newborn smiles
Yellow sun on green leaves
Greenish-yellow chrysoberyl
Oasis of the summertime

I remember picking them up
From the rooftop of boyhood-life
Our winged friends came, bees, monkeys too
Attempting another bite

Fond, fond memories
Mother used to cut and bring us mangoes
While I tasted the golden slice
My granny told me stories of
The tree, it stood there when they built this house
When she was eight or nine

This fruit, this taste
Connects this land
Magnifera indica
The secular deity of the mango nation
You cannot begin to understand

The gift of Indian summer
My childhood wrapped in emerald leaves
The whiff, the scent, I transcend
Time;go to an age when all was well
Or at the least, to me it seemed

As I'm taking a bite of this season's last mango
As the golden drops stick to my pubescent stache
I remember a conversation I had

The mango tree
It talked to me
No, I'm not crazy
It was the mango tree

Little things in life
Leave something
Oh!so many memories

Pots, pans and plates
Pots, pans

And the larder
A ghost house
Trembling

The larder
Stocked with oats and rice
Pots

And when it is time to cook
And then the gas stove is lit for
A feast

Pots, pans and plates
- Rows of jars line
The windowsill

Preserves, chutneys, jams
Preserves, chutneys
- and mango atchar

That reminds me
Of India
Oh! Lord Gandhi!