MANGOING

I sit next to a box of mangoes
knowing very well
it might be the last.

It IS the last.

Now all that remains
of the box,
of summer,
is the aroma—
a scent you can almost
eat.

I am not fond of you, Summer,
but I love you.

I love how we meet every year
with warmth, at first,

and then inevitably
temperatures flare.

You can't help me,
you can't help yourself.

I hate you and I curse you
more and more every year

and yet,
and yet

when you leave
you kiss me with
the impossible sweetness
of mangoes.