My Throat Is Dry

In the late spring, when my windows are open (the ones that face south), the westward lake winds curl up through bricks and trees to reach my collar. I like to eat Alphonso mangoes around 1PM, at the height of the gusts. I eat them the way my dad taught me – by kneading the wide faces with my palm until the pulp turns into liquid, then biting off the pruned stem to form a small hole, then drinking through the hole like a CapriSun with no straw.

This way the sugar crash drops me gently into a midday nap.

Mini holding breath or breathing

     in an out.

Walking down the staircase hearing:

    “you bitch, don’t walk away!”

     “you bitch!”

No moment of stopping and turning around at the bottom of a stairwell or outside the door or the sidewalk crying.

Thinking about walking back home, sticking their thumb in their throat right at the crab apple.

         Crab apples in the throat,

         thumb in the throat,

         toes pointed out, one to

             the front door,

         one back home.

Home: A glass bong with three college boys – turning periwinkle, spending their evening with Haribo gummies and long rainbow sour soft candy Erudite. Talking to a splayed, slippery candy wrapper dusted in sour granules and sugar granules.

The pollen carries through three open windows, so my nose swells shut and I breathe through my mouth. When I wake up, my throat is dry and the pulpy thread still rests lingers astringent.

My throat is dry,

so if I talk I croak.

Lo siento.

Image: Kachha Keri. Pukka Aam, 1814. Calcutta. Watercolor on Paper.