It’s because of words that I want to eat
a mango, that I want to be someplace

where they grow mangoes in season and where
I can hear the mango skin rip away

from the fruity flesh, where I can watch the
surface lift off the golden mango globe.

There are no mangoes in Minnesota
like the mangoes of Indonesia,

and in my family no recipe
that describes how to make a sauce out of

mango, tamarind and lemongrass; there’s
no one to tell me how the mango bud

will make my voice sweet and no one to hear
all the beautiful words for the mango.