I am cut, and in my heart is planted
A grafting of your luxurious bough–
Some gesture you made, some grace half-granted
Rinsing kitchen mangoes beneath the faucet.
Your eyes were black and hungry, your mouth too,
As you shook out of your pants–
Round the rickety chairs we wheeled, rich and slow,
A sweet molasses movement in our dance.
The mango juice oiled your open breasts
Olive-toned and slanted, and the green smell of tea
Rose wreathed from your hair–I lost my breath
And rode your slipping hips for certainty.
And now from the grafted tree that grows,
I shake a thousand hours of our mangoes.