You cut the mango the way my mother never let us —
straight through, no plate, standing at the sink,
and the juice went down your wrist
to the crease of your elbow
and you looked at me
like you were daring me to find you a napkin.
There was no napkin in this house. There has never been.
March in Enugu is a mouth that won't close.
The generator next door coughing,
the ceiling fan pushing the same hot air around
like gossip,
and you, in my brother's old shirt,
holding out the half with the seed in it
because you know that's the half I like,
the one you have to work for.
I took it with my teeth.
I am not ashamed to tell you that.
I took it with my teeth and the fruit gave
the way only fruit and certain people give,
all at once, no argument,
and the sweetness ran everywhere it wanted —
my chin, my throat,
the collar of a dress I'd ironed that morning
for a cousin's wedding I was now going to be late for.
You laughed. Then you didn't laugh.
Then you put your thumb to the corner of my mouth
where the juice was,
and then your mouth,
and the fan went round,
and the generator coughed,
and the cousin got married without me,
God bless her,
she understood.
