it’s a pulse of island rhythm
at the downtown fair
like the mango merchant
on the corner
of 8th and market
square

his hands dark
on my arm
like alabaster whispers
he offering a mango 
delicately 

“do they remind you miss
of passion”

i blush
in shades of sunset 
dreaming
wet sweet delicate 
almost exotic almost

lost

in transition from market
to paradise drawn
by his low sung notes
flavoured
of exotic timbre
almost

like a mango

almost
like the vision playing
a slow congo beat
nectar dripping
honey sweet 
from his fingers
to my lips

“so miss
you like to take home 
some sweet mangoes today?”

and i answer yes
in a low sung song
because mangoes
yes
they do remind me
of passion


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