Mornings Like This

I leaned over the metallic sink,

a slimy mango heart in my hands and on my cheeks.

The sweetness seeping into my senses,

the awareness that this grew so close, in the same air I breathe.

The teachers are striking and at this point and

the next sight of school isn't until June.

So here he is, my morning friend, poking his head

through the window, a broomstick blooming beside him.

A few pesos in the meantime, she passes to him

while telling me she has secrets to imbed in my youth.

I lean at my hips a little more, pressed against the counter

to save every drop of mango from the sink floor.

This fruit grew and died here, in the same earth in walk,

among the thick, wonted song of our bird neighbors,

under the same golden sun on my eyelashes, which swims to the middle of the sky.

I always want to remember mornings like this.