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.