Mango Juice

Trinidad is…

The green cat’s eye
of the last marble left
from the two bulging pockets
that I win from my schoolfriend
Junior. As I slam his last
remaining marble
from the chalk circle
with a running start
he kicks me in the balls.
and all my mother’s friends
visit asking me if my balls
are feeling any better?

Trinidad is…

The bead of sticky mango juice
running down my bony wrists.
And it’s the Indian girl next door
who wears the same two dresses
all year round. She gives me a ripe
mango plumped to sweetness
once a week. She never talks
she just gives me the mango
and sits in the yard
with a goofy smile watching
me as I eat it, and then she leaves.
If she’s trying to get me
to like her I can tell you right
now it’s working.

Trinidad is…
The first drop of warm rain
of the wet season.
And all the young kids run
out into the street
in their Jockey shorts
with a bar of soap
for a rain bath.

It’s nights so long
you feel you could reach up
and pluck the diamante stars
from the black velvet sky.
It’s where I was, where I am
and where I’m going.
It’s the knot in my throat
when I have to leave.



Reprinted with the permission of the author.