IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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ODE TO THE MANGOSTEEN

Jenna Mace

Hiding down dingy, foul-smelling streets, Gently nestled in cloth to keep the bugs out, Or resting inside silk-lined baskets, used for laundry the day before, Or simply sitting out on tattered blankets, growing mushy in the sun. Reaching out, I take one in my hands, searching for imperfections in its dark purple skin. Satisfied with my selection, I make my way from the crowded Bangkok market And head to a more solitary place. I flick open its green flower-like stem. A cloudy residue leaks over my fingers. I sweep it off on my already dirty pants. A slight breeze lifts a sweet scent That mingles with the dirty smell of the streets. Breaking off a piece, I touch the slug-like meat to my dry lips-- Stopping mid-bite as a small boy skips along, Staring at me. I close my mouth round the fruit. Every taste bud rises like a goose bump as cold juices slide down my throat. Like an orange the fruit is split into sections. I swallow each piece slowly, And I am in the moment. And, in that sweet moment, far from home, My mind unwraps the beauty behind The dirty Thai streets.

 
 
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