The Mango Virgin / shayla hawkins

He stood on Prince George Wharf
selling mangoes.
I walked apart from the crowd,
yet he knew I was a tourist.
.
He pointed at me.
“You,” he said. “Come here.”
I heard the whisper of chimes
and Bahamian sea in his voice.
I obeyed.
“You never ate a mango, young mama?”
My tongue grew heavy in his presence.
I shook my head. His lips parted
to a gap-toothed smile.
.
“Such a shame,” he laughed.
“You can do many things with a mango.”
The sun threw a slanted gleam
over his salt-and-pepper beard.
He lifted a knife from his cart
then joined the blade to a mango.
Its flesh hissed as it shaped itself
to the knife’s rhythm,
its juices snaking
down the man’s arm.
.
When he finished, the mango slice lay
atop the knife, both bodies
glistening. He lifted the fruit
with his  dark brown fingers
to my mouth.
“Eat,” he coaxed.
“You be a mango virgin no more.”
.
The fruit slipped over my lips. I swallowed,
sweetness bathing my tongue and teeth.
I reached into my purse to pay.
“No charge, m’lady. When you learn the mango’s secrets,
you come back to see me.” He winked.
.
I walked away.
The sidewalks changed to clouds,
the human throngs to forests.
I brought the mango to my mouth
and sucked it softly.
I felt like the first woman
tasting God’s tongue.

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