Waiting for the Water to Boil

by Cornelia Rohde

I hold a mango on its tip,
firm as a nursing mother’s breast,
slice sleekly through one side,
then the other.
Skin the pip,
lean over the sink
to suck sumptuous flesh,
my chin running liquid sunshine.

I hear wild ginger breathe
into a soft elephant ear to say
Jupiter and Venus will be
uncommonly close tonight.

The kettle bursts with steam.

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