Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

That day you knew it was time to go.
You could feel the senses dimming. Memory
was playing games with you. Dissolution
seemed imminent. Even hunger was
in abeyance. You prepared yourself
in strong religious belief. You were sure
the body perishes but the soul remains.

Then a spark lit the dying air, revealing
two mangoes hanging on a tree. As if
struck by lightning your eyes opened on
orchard groves, your ears rent by the shrill
call of the koal and the shrieks of the watchmen,
as they beat their rattle-drums to scare
thieves away. The mangoes must ripen.

Mangoes! 'Mango', you said, pulling back
the hunger. 'I want to eat mangoes', your last fling.
Mango! So juicy, so pulpy, it sends the mind crazy
with desire. Oh, to grab it tight in the mouth
and suck its yielding sweetness is a joy
unmatched. The taste buds all rush out,
blessing the invader for bringing such delight.
‘It won’t do me harm,’ you insisted.

Remember when it did do you harm?
You could not resist a basket full of
rain mangoes? Such sweetness would make
the milk flow more, you argued, not
listening to caution. Sweetness too can kill.
Out of the breast flowed milk too thick
and sticky for the baby to hold it in. The doctor
called you a killer mother, as the infant
writhed to stillness, younger than three moons.

That was a long time ago. Sixty years.
Nothing now could stem your last
blaze of desire shooting through the night sky.

You sat with a dish in your lap,
full of cold, chilled mangoes. You ate
with relish, licking your fingers dripping with
juices from two whole mangoes. You and
the mangoes - in a rite of consummation,
the only beings inhabiting the planet.

Then you slid down deep into the bed,
and closed your eyes to sleep. No words
were spoken, no flutters of struggling
were heard. The body went still not long after.