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
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