A Honey Summer Fruit Promise

Honey-flavored lozenges coating our throats,
you split a mango in the tree shade by the lemonade
stand, fleshing out the football shaped seed.

Juices running down our chins, you begin 
a burial ceremony for all the mango seeds
we have eaten since June — lumps of fresh

dirt — little graves — as if all our pets suddenly
died overnight. Our backyard turned cemetery. It was,
after all, a promise to one another: I will be here

to pick mangos from our seed-turned-trees
year after year with you. A honey summer fruit promise.
The neighborhood kids are playing under the street-

lamps. The dog is scratching at the backdoor. A bird
picks at the soft earth, looking for something to eat.
You and I are washing our sticky hands.

— ANDREA LAWLER

Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. She is the founder of two non-profits: Keeping Emmons County Clean & Frankie’s Feline Sanctuary. She currently lives in North Dakota with her three cats.