Petting mangoes
The beach by our cabin is a carpet of stones
smooth and still
it’s hard to believe
the assembly line of pummeling
each stone endured
to land there
in that quiet bay,
waves tired out from all their heaving,
listlessly slurping the shore.
My son ate mango for the first time today,
three of them in a row.
We felt the skin of each one,
petting them like a dog’s head.
Smooth like a stone, I said.
This made him laugh like crazy
and I will never know
if he thought of that beach,
pulpy and orange,
a bed of mangoes,
eating the sticky flesh
from between his toes.