Mango, by Rebecca Yang

Sunset skin, mottled with black flecks

Sucked breath and knife slams down

Right side cleaved, cut into squares

          See, mom once said

          handed this cupped gold to me, then you can bite them off one by one

Left side severed, bleeding juice

Stinging my hardened hands

Two halves gone

The middle stays

          The worst part always for me, she winked,

          my mouth in want,

          barely any fruit left hanging off of the seed

Skin taken off in three quick flicks

I look at the core

Its gaunt orange looks back

Sick saliva pooling in my mouth

A flash of bone, teeth trembling

Under seedy weight, tenders

Devouring my tongue

I am slapped

I swallow

The yellow pulp into my throat

Head underwater, fall back

A staring child, an eager mother

Tear inside my chest

Bodies that burn in a blur

In

moments,

I am finished.

I wipe off the board,

Rinse the knife