The Old Mango Tree.

I watch my husband gardening.
Under the shade of the apple tree, he stops,
Assessing his next task.
Surveying, with pride,
Neat borders and bright green grass.


Our garden was wild and beautiful.
Flowers snaked out over cracked paths,
Overgrown orchids and unruly Dahlias
Crossed Calla Lilies as they
Protruded through the jungle of luscious foliage.
The smell of jasmine hung heavy in the
Summer air, heady and delicious.
She would sit for hours under
The old mango tree, cigarette
Smoke coiling around her, watching
The sun disappear behind the grey islands.
My mother, the caged bird.
And why did you stop singing Mama?


I hum the tune she used to
As I put the silverware away,
An indigo life turned magnolia.
How I long for that mango tree now
A hundred years old, his strong
Arms stretched around me.
And who imprisoned you Mama?


As I watch him, I wonder
Should I bring him a glass of
Ice-cold lemonade, like
The wives on American TV?