Papai cuts the mango into little squares
Like teeth and bricks and turtles’ backs. He’d like to
Suck the juice off his fingers but doesn’t.
Water moves the yellow fibers off his hands,
The fibers that he’d rather have sucked like noodles.
My sister naps on the couch, she is
Soft, white, a little blushed. Puffy at the cheeks
And mouth. A white peach, curled and settled
In a bowl for a still life.
Mamãe and I eat the mango squares at the kitchen counter.
Mamãe says the mango’s too ripe.
It’s always too ripe. She says something
And laughs up some sugar,
Her big front teeth like the bricks and turtles’ backs
Papai eats standing. My sister’s eyes flutter,
Her waking lips butter
With a lick followed by
An unraveling of arms, of roots.
She’s sweet and awoken and always ready
My skin has a bit of green,
And now, in the summer, a flush of red.
The louder voice, the eyes that curl
With a smile, the words –
That are bright and unclear,
That are difficult to see but easy to taste –
All suggest I’m blown with yellow.
A bit like mango, a bite like me.