Mango
sing songs of my survival in the early morning.
orange fruit sweeter than summer afternoons
all that heat edged between lovely and unbearable
juice dripping down
my hands.
mangos still warm with the rays of the sun,
jewel bugs and dark dirt.
september has cleared the air.
everything feels as clean as after crying,
the world washed out with salt.
frost makes its way into my dreams
and the corners of my mouth,
and still in my memories fly
fruit bats with their wings
and big eyes, making their way through
black velvet and bourbon skies
(how i love virginia with its
red red red dirt)
in the night they just look like birds.
i buy mangos in crowded stands
outside every metro station
and carry them with me,
round yellow fruits slipped
into the pocket of my winter coat. they glow
like fireflies in the darkness.
About the author: Ella Harrigan lives in Paris but was mostly raised in Charlottesville, Virginia. She is almost 16, almost 5'7, and almost fluent in French. Her previous publications include Rare Byrd and The Skinny Poetry Journal. She is looking for a time where she will be well enough established as a person that she will better know how to write an impressive author's bio. For now, she's just happy to be here.
