At the sink with mango
cupped. Knife slices through
the sun, fibres sever, part
and drip. The jungle in my palm,
sweet hot December scent,
sticky juices
trickling over naked skin.
Through the window clouds
brew black
the sky is bruised,
all blue fallen to
agapanthus, spear-tipped
pond plant, waterlily.
Goldfish flicker.
I could toss them this sun,
they would glide and cluster
inquisitive, a frisson
of golden rays in a
cold limpid underworld of waver,
but the mango is for me.
Immediate,
firm and full, a breast;
warm, sweet, drooling nectar
to be sucked, and perfume
that flips me straight into
the golden sexy heart of summer.
© Dael Allison
Taree City Festival Poetry Prize 2004