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self-portrait as mango
tarfia faizullah
she says, your english is great! how long have you been in our country?
i say, suck on a mango, bitch, since that’s all you think i eat anyway. mangoes
are what 1 like me know everything about, right? doesn’t
a mango just win spelling bees and kiss white boys? isn’t a mango
a placeholder in a poem folded with burkas? but this one,
the one i’m going to slice and serve down her throat, is a mango
that remembers jungles jagged with insects, the river’s darker thirst.
this mango was cut down by a 2 that beheads soldiers, mango
that 3 and suns itself into a hard-palmed fist only a few months
per year, 4 while blood stains green ponds. why use a mango
won’t be cracked open to reveal whiteness to you. this mango
isn’t alien just because of its gold-green bloodline. i know
i’m worth waiting for. i want to be kneaded for ripeness. mango:
my own sunset-skinned heart waiting to be held and peeled, mango
i suck open with teeth. tappai! this is the only way to eat a mango.
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