Summer is the sweet smell of blossoms
in my uncle’s orchard.
I would pick the best looking
ripe pink-auburn
mango.
Wash it.
I would not peel it
revealing its golden pulp entirely.
Rather I softened it by rolling
slowly
between my palms.
Then I nibble a neat hole
at the top of the skin pouch
pulling the pulp
up slowly into my mouth.
I did this all
While listening to Mukesh on the radio
so the juice falls freely
with a melody
into my stomach.
This is the fleeting
poetry of my childhood.
Ashok Bhargava is a poet and founder of Writers International Network of Canada also known as WIN. He can be reached at [email protected]
