Wednesday, May 2, 2007


Every time my tongue touches mango I am reminded of ice storms, trapped in my apartment with booze and loud music, laughter dominating the night. One woman needs above all other needs, a mango and her lover braves black ice for her desires. The fruit is smooth, heavy in my palm smelling of islands with colors of squawking tropical parrots. I watch her deftly slice the skin into boats exposing saffron flesh being divvied into tiny squares with a sharp blade then inverted into plateaus. I place it to my lips, sweetness is interlaced with peppery undertones that moves me as the juice sticky and sensual runs down my chin. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Amarillo Bay 2/08

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