JAMAICA 2002
The mango juice
slid down your chin
dripped
onto your powder-blue dress
you bit into the flesh
of the fruit you held so tightly
your face a portrait
of childish delight
and when more nectar
rolled down your arm
drawing an orange line
from wrist to elbow
your tongue
swept a clean path
just the way mine used to
from elbow to wrist
your grandmother –
older, smaller than the last time I saw her –
laughed at you and shook her head
“Mi pickney come home,” she said.
