MANGO 

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