Drawn By The Mango Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Kukwa, the ash-bearded
man, lives under
a giant mushroom umbrella
of green leaves, a mango tree

glittering with scissor-cut
and trimmed
ribbons flowering part
of his taupe corrugated roof.

The sun's silver-yellow
center looks like
the stone of a mango,

after its ripe flesh
has been cut through,

tooth-sliced and gulped down,
and there's no dripping
juice to sip and lick.

Kukwa's mango trees
draw to his stretching yard
hundreds of cartridge-eyed

children tiptoeing
to shoot into leaves and spot
out every swelling fruit.

(ii)

When a feathery silver sun
casts its sprayed glow
on a mango tree

sculpting out every
gleaming ellipse
and oval of its shamrock
and emerald leaves,

lime and parakeet
fruits creeping closely
to a chartreuse and lemon hue
of ripeness meet

the sweeping and digging
eyes of bulged-browed
children filtering out

every rosette carrying
the heavy-cheeked fruit.

(iii)

Children's eyes dig through
the branches and twigs
and leaves to scoop out clusters
of yellow-orange and reddish

pink gems hanging down
trees to be mined
by poking deeper swords of eyes

into their fleshy skin
without touching
or scratching or wounding them.

Why do these children
run round the mango tree,
each an eye shot at

a gold ripe mango
spinning red stripes, the fruit
having reached the apex
and shoreline of taste?

(iv)

Don't let the mango
cross over the sharp line
before wind and storm

toss off with hard punches
the yellow tapered oval
swinging and spiraling ball

beyond the beach's shoreline
into engulfing waves
to paddle it
to a sun-starved shore,

where it exposes its juice
and soft cheeks
to buzzing bees
and twittering birds. They sip
the fruit singing.

But when the mangoes
are overripe with a tangy
and acrid sour hang,
they send both sipping children

and birds to wriggle off
to a cloudy night
of pain and devouring cramps.

The mangoes are so sweet
they have fangs
to maul and mangle over-stretched
mouths and tongues.