By Sania Blange
The mangoes lay in the kitchen-
lush, green and raw,
as if asking to be pickled,
as if time itself held its breath.
A small girl named Betty-
socks unmatched, her hair tie
older than her age.
With empty experience of
how mangoes taste,
she cut slices of the green fruit.
It wasn't sour. It was sweet-
sweeter than the dream she'd had the night before.
Betty was delighted-
the raw looking fruit
tasted like honey.
She didn't know yet that
not all sweetness is joy.
The mango had skipped its soury innocence.
It had no choice-
it became what it's world made of it.
Maybe the green mango, too,
is obliviously proud to have ripened
too early.
Maybe it smiles,
not knowing what it lost.