Rebecca Allen ’25
Staff Writer
The woman you love
Cuts mangoes
And serves them cold.
Sloppily sliced,
Their juice
Glazes her hands a
Slippery orange.
Your gaze;
Her back to you;
The careless chunks
She deposits into the
Porcelain bowl.
When she turns
And faces you, her eyes are
Questions you fail
To answer.
The woman who
Loves you
Also despises you.
Still, she cuts mangoes.
Image Source: The Spruce
