all those mangoes and their three
months of saturating incense
that were plucked pulled and fell
got shipped handled bagged
tossed handed dropped
cut slurped and sucked
are now hallowed ghosts
in a summer memory
if gold could be a taste
and intoxicate a color
and the juice licked
off fingers and plates
be like holy water
that some god
had spilled
then there’s religion
in that fruit
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