Teeth sunk into tart flesh are

the crossing of a threshold that cannot be

uncrossed, unprayed, uncried away.

That trickle of sweet juice that waters the mouth and

smacks the lips and curls in your belly is a machete’s thwack:

cut off from, given over to what is holy and unholy,

what is Godly, and what is ungodly.

I Loved my Mama first, then Jesus, then mangoes.

I Loved God next, then I loved a man,

grew to Love that man, thwack:

cut off, given over—

tart flesh and sweet juice and lips smacked,

a belly full of love and lust and understanding,

eyes opened, knowing good and evil,

I knew God, once.


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