sticky mango

my mother told me my last post was like this:
"my. mother. says. I. am. not. writing. enough. I am typing. I am not dead"
I burst out laughing.

Humidity had shackled me to my bed, wrapped its heavy arms around me and murmured into my ear until my brain became a homogeneous goop. Heat so close to body temperature my insides merged with the outside. Molasses spilled onto the crevasses: slow thoughts and sticky fingers.

But I try and persevere! Today I met Sar'ka at Haymarket. I bought: blackberries, lemons, radishes, broccoli.
She bought: a box of mangoes, ten count, for four dollars. We went to the water and ate them, slicing the skin with our nails, devouring them with greedy lips, juice running down our arms right to the elbow. Seven mangoes gone as she told me about her semester in India, decadence making our heads spin and bellies yearn in summer heat.

Last weekend on the way to the park I thought about how my past is not my destiny, and by the time I met up with Matt I was almost crying. Kelsey said: yes, those are good thoughts! but also terrifying. He watched as I picked purple wild flowers.

A thunderstorm is coming.