Decomposition

Monday sees Mangoes in her Dreams.

Swollen, Ripe, Too-Many, Too-Much

she says. Sweet, Plump, Soft As Tar In The Summer,

she says. Mangoes, she says, Bloated Things;

Broken Things.

Monday sees Mangoes in her Dreams.

She sees them when Ma plants the geraniums in July

& spades the earth. Skewers it. Spears it. Spills pools

of molten dirt and dribbles it over the flower box --

sweet juice, sticky juice. Mushy like overripe Mangoes. 

Monday sees Mangoes in her Dreams.

They splatter her in her sleep & blister the stagnant air,

leech the cicadas songs with sap; drown them. The sterile

hills fill with fruit, sluice through Ma’s geraniums & twist 

& turn & flood & jerk her awake. Awake, Awake. 

Monday hides from The Mangoes. 

Sometimes they writhe through the crevices in

her sneakers & she sees them in clear day -- brisk dawn. 

Monday, they tell her, Don’t Run, We’re Just Same:

Left In The Sun Long Enough, 

& We’ll Soften 

& Crinkle 

& Rot.