my son sent me
a box of mangoes
that sits on the table
like the Trojan horse.
waiting to surprise me
I've been around awhile
survived a few wars,
the raising and uprisings of children,
the rise and fall of hemlines
and dictators,
the arrivals and leavetakings
of friends
but I have never, ever,
eaten a mango
I've seen them at market,
sullen little aliens
the complexion of potato,
flanked in their bins,
eyeing me, taking notes.
they reek of foreboding
I know there are tiny dragons
curled tight around their stones,
their lancet tongues
coilet to strike -
who knows what evil lurks in the heart of a mango?
I ignore them,
along with other touch-me-nots,
kohlrabi, fennel,
arugula and rampion,
that fleshy green Rapunzel's mother
had to have (and look what happened
to her)
but now
they demand attention,
these grenades camouflaged
in green tissue,
waiting for an innocent
to set them off.
conscience forbids disposal of a gift,
so I read and call and follow advice
on how to slice and dice the meat
into cubes and bite them from the skin.
nothing blows up but my mind.
I am thrown from my horse
by the God of mangoes,
blinded, humbled, mumbling
endless hosannas.
epiphany
punches no time clock,
has no age limit,
for the wide-eyed soul
arrested in wonder;
it bides its time
for the ripeready moment
to crack the armour,
pry loose the scales,
ravage the known
like a rogue tornado
today i tasted a mango
and nothing is the same.
I've turned adventurer,
with a yen to climb
a small, unintimidating mountain
and at the top discover and name
a waterfall for my cat,
to catch a moonflower opening
and crop circle artists at work,
to write dissertations
on burrowing owls
and llamas as shepherds,
I want to dip shards of French bread
into warm truffle oil
without dribbling
down my blouse,
I want to sample rampion
and see what it does
for my hair
a box of mangoes
that sits on the table
like the Trojan horse.
waiting to surprise me
I've been around awhile
survived a few wars,
the raising and uprisings of children,
the rise and fall of hemlines
and dictators,
the arrivals and leavetakings
of friends
but I have never, ever,
eaten a mango
I've seen them at market,
sullen little aliens
the complexion of potato,
flanked in their bins,
eyeing me, taking notes.
they reek of foreboding
I know there are tiny dragons
curled tight around their stones,
their lancet tongues
coilet to strike -
who knows what evil lurks in the heart of a mango?
I ignore them,
along with other touch-me-nots,
kohlrabi, fennel,
arugula and rampion,
that fleshy green Rapunzel's mother
had to have (and look what happened
to her)
but now
they demand attention,
these grenades camouflaged
in green tissue,
waiting for an innocent
to set them off.
conscience forbids disposal of a gift,
so I read and call and follow advice
on how to slice and dice the meat
into cubes and bite them from the skin.
nothing blows up but my mind.
I am thrown from my horse
by the God of mangoes,
blinded, humbled, mumbling
endless hosannas.
epiphany
punches no time clock,
has no age limit,
for the wide-eyed soul
arrested in wonder;
it bides its time
for the ripeready moment
to crack the armour,
pry loose the scales,
ravage the known
like a rogue tornado
today i tasted a mango
and nothing is the same.
I've turned adventurer,
with a yen to climb
a small, unintimidating mountain
and at the top discover and name
a waterfall for my cat,
to catch a moonflower opening
and crop circle artists at work,
to write dissertations
on burrowing owls
and llamas as shepherds,
I want to dip shards of French bread
into warm truffle oil
without dribbling
down my blouse,
I want to sample rampion
and see what it does
for my hair
