Mango Season

In Memory of Rich Olney, My Cousin

Tonight Aunty Linda’s plane arrives.
Father, without words, takes up the yellow pole
beside the mango tree. I watch his eyes,
the pole climbs with meditative control;
he picks the fruit in bold, graceful swoops,
two and three together, not letting one drop.
One branch is so burdened that it droops
to the ground; others above the roof-top
undulate in the wind. Father looks to these
and says: “Things that live closest to the sun
beyond the pole’s reach, dance in the breeze.
But out of reach, they are doomed to fall, son.”

Mother inspects the fallen fruit, sums the loss.
She sighs as she presses the soft, bruised skin,
laments the wound within, then with gentle toss
casts each to the wall beside their fallen kin.
Evening is perfumed by their slow decay;
golden flesh gives way like the dying ember
of dusk splintered by long shadows. In the grey
night, father puts away the pole:
I remember
for a moment, Rich: who, amongst the kelp-steps,
with powerful arms that lifted laughing children
by the ears, moved in cold ocean depths,
chasing with indifference fish and apparition.

Before we go in, father turns my shoulder
to where the rotting pile sits. He picks up one
riddled with pin-drop holes: “Birds with green feather,
who sing in morning weather, return here, son.”
Inside, we wash the mangoes carefully,
and stack the best in a box for Aunty.

Mynah Litature