April 8: Scent of a Mango

I watch the contours

of my mind, touch

the hollows of my

mouth while I wait.

Eventually, the words

blossom up in me like

bruises, swell my eager

tongue, and rush out

like a river. 

The metaphors

hang heavy

as if

off a mango tree.

I remember the sight

of morning light

as it danced through 

quivering leaves,

peeling the image

raw.

All day today

I carried around

a mango

as if it were

a secret.

Finally,

in the dark,

I took it out of

the white packet.

Let the silence

throb in my ears.

Held it in my

aching palms

as if it were precious.

Sliced off amber skin,

as the notes of a raga

danced to the sliver

of moon that hung in

the dark sky; delicate
as a feather, fine as a lie.

The knife cut sharply

into firm flesh, spilled

summer sun all over

my hands. Like blood,

or egg yolk, or the sea.

My mouth was the colour

of sun. My hands beaming

with light. Orange skin

lay limp on the wet plate.

Later, I realised the scent

had laced my hands like smoke.

I remembered light and shadow

on the mango tree at dawn.

I wondered if it smelt the same:

of mornings, of flesh, of summer, 

of childhood, loss and heady love.