I was cutting down some mangoes as my mother told me her stories
Of all the times abusers rekindled and the disappointments of the past
Some tales I’ve heard
Occasionally new details admitted along with my growing age.
(I don’t know how to properly cut a mango)
Some peel from the sides
Some try to slice straight through the seed.
Blindly it begins to come apart
Unfolding the truth once again
Squishing and peeling
Getting my hands full of its sticky orange mess
(Theres a method to her unraveling)
But it doesn’t come off cleanly
As I cut the mango
Into uneven shapes and sizes
We both get hurt.
Her for the thousandth time
Me, as many times I have seen her reopen the wound.
But as she guided my hand,
She kept it far from the knife.
Her stories were a gift.
An assortment of colors, juices, tastes, experience
It all in one bowl.
For now mother, all I have to offer you
Are these mangoes
I’d hope you take it as a gift
A story for a story
A bowl for bowl
(I know how to love because I’ve been loved)
(You know how to cut because you’ve been cut)