mango tree

our mouths are red-rimmed

with mango rashes but still

we claw at the branches for more

we can't help it-- there's candy

growing in our trees, and we can't

stop until we've licked the last sap

from the webs of our fingers

and are picking at the strings

in our teeth with faces like

abandoned lovers'. we poke with

long bamboo up at the speckled

sky where golden globes hang

out of climbers' reach

making our necks strain and

our dry mouths yearn, oh,

let them fall-- in the cool

protective underskirt of the

tree, beneath which we mass

attending the sermon of

whispering leaves, peeking

from beneath their indiscreet green

at the dusty hot everything else

that is not

a mango tree