Mango Crush

When I peel I meditate.

The slow precise curvature of its smooth, warmly hued skin.

It’s a game I play with myself.

A small nick, that first cut,

Is the only cut.

The rest is a serpentine of skin,

Slowly uncurling,

Slowly peeling,

Slow and steady,

Round and around.

The bright flesh appears like the rising sun,

Glistening and tempting.

I peel with precision and focus.

Because I MUST leave one long strip of skin,

So intact,

I could cast a mold and start over.

I’m almost done. Satisfied. Precise.

Mango is home, familiar in texture and flavor.

Wet fingers slide,

Flesh tears and shreds.

My knife slips and I pray I don’t bleed.

Sweet pulp stains my board and fingertips.

Sweet flesh slides down my throat,

Sticking to the crevices in my teeth.

Filaments so fine the only way to pluck them out,

Is to call my dentist. I need his waterpik.

But I’m busy working on this mango.

Juice drips down my fingers.

Sticky, viscous, and oh so sweet.

I meditate with each chew,

Slow and fulfilling,

With eyes closed I prepare for the final bite.

Satisfied.