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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
March 6, 2009
Mango by ~eyewish uses a mature, conversational voice and subtle imagery to hint at the fuller story surrounding a delicate issue.
Featured by SparrowSong
Literature Text
She could eat a mango with her eyes closed
Her fingers well acquainted with the fruit's soft hairs
Then peel it back slowly with a sharp paring knife
As I watched, intrigued by how the smooth grain
Of the kitchen table matched the hues of her arm.
But this was one time, when the soft summer night's
breath exhaled long into the kitchenette
That I found her head down, her eyes withdrawn
To a breeze tossed curtain above her.
And I noticed her stomach swelling as a ripening fruit.
And knowing quite well that a seed separated from the tree
At such a young age could fall into another garden
And be fruitful. And this she knew, for her rough tan legs
Still remembered the back scratching at her when
In her old country, men would climb up and into
The trees, selfishly tearing a fruit from its mother.
But only once later in life did I glimpse the ghost
A dull red that broke from my sister's finger when once
She peeled a mango with the knife coming towards her.
The blood smearing across the orange-green of the fruit.
She salted the meat found beneath the skin of the mango
With a salt that stings when it finds its way
Into a fresh cut. Then she looked me over, her eyes
The color and shape of a wrinkled almond. She said
"The mango. It's not quite ripe." Then ate in silence.
Her fingers well acquainted with the fruit's soft hairs
Then peel it back slowly with a sharp paring knife
As I watched, intrigued by how the smooth grain
Of the kitchen table matched the hues of her arm.
But this was one time, when the soft summer night's
breath exhaled long into the kitchenette
That I found her head down, her eyes withdrawn
To a breeze tossed curtain above her.
And I noticed her stomach swelling as a ripening fruit.
And knowing quite well that a seed separated from the tree
At such a young age could fall into another garden
And be fruitful. And this she knew, for her rough tan legs
Still remembered the back scratching at her when
In her old country, men would climb up and into
The trees, selfishly tearing a fruit from its mother.
But only once later in life did I glimpse the ghost
A dull red that broke from my sister's finger when once
She peeled a mango with the knife coming towards her.
The blood smearing across the orange-green of the fruit.
She salted the meat found beneath the skin of the mango
With a salt that stings when it finds its way
Into a fresh cut. Then she looked me over, her eyes
The color and shape of a wrinkled almond. She said
"The mango. It's not quite ripe." Then ate in silence.
Literature
It is hard to be soft
Mom cutting Dad's hair in the kitchen. Feather voices
because they are discussing matters heavier than water,
jarring scrapes when they move the chair.
Tufts of hair fall, touching the
curved blade of ear. It is sharper, as are our brains,
than you think, even as
the night velvets. It pads alongside my cat,
who sits behind the laundry room door and makes old saxophone sounds.
I slip inside to touch
the kitten scruf of his neck.
How difficult it is, to definitively love or hate,
when everything is so soft.
From where I sit there are no windows
and except for drooping eyelids I would not believe
in the moon. Or in the swift autum
Literature
Katuata
going out with her
was like World War One, except
it was over by Christmas
Literature
Goldenrod Skies
i dream of us
getting lost,
in the field overgrown with wildflowers.
each a brilliant, shining, golden gleam
that reflected off your eyes,
and made me think of endless skies
and the touch of your lips to mine.
a never ending dream,
the fractured fairytale of us:
that got us lost in each others arms for hours
until all our breath was each others names,
and the wistless wind
carried them for miles and miles.
and the only witness to our
sometimes sins
was the sun and cloudy stars above.
our heads, pillowed on the earthy dampness
the smell of goldenrod in our heads
and the sweetness of honeysuckle on our lips.
i dream of us
ge
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New description:
I probably wrote this piece back in 1998 and probably never revised it since then. Although, I received a lot of encouraging feedback after the Daily Deviation (Thank you, and what a surprise!) that perhaps I should. In this, I attempted to softly describe an emotional issue in the context of my Filipino-American heritage.
I probably wrote this piece back in 1998 and probably never revised it since then. Although, I received a lot of encouraging feedback after the Daily Deviation (Thank you, and what a surprise!) that perhaps I should. In this, I attempted to softly describe an emotional issue in the context of my Filipino-American heritage.
© 2004 - 2024 eyewish
Comments54
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This is so indescribably sad and beautiful.
Amazing story
Amazing story