This time the mangoes in our garden
Ripened at the edge of sweetness
We had buried them in corpulent sacks
Of rice, and in mindless delirium
Had not waited for them to ripen.
The first blushes of red
Were good until the seeds showed themselves.
Fibres in tart disorder threatened
Threads caught in our teeth headfirst
And needed stolen toothpicks for release.
Now free of annoyance and pain,
We still licked the back of our teeth
Many times before we could accept
And understand the tactile illusion.
After all the time had been right
For so many things, except perhaps for mangoes.