The Mango Tree Poem by peauladd huy

I know my time is near.
Outside, the mango tree has been empty
for quite some time now; newer leaves
are now budding with clustered flowers.

Not long now till the buds
mature, weighing down
the branches. Sometimes, the limb knows
how fragile the mind can be: too much, and it stops

redirecting – starts to believe
that harm comes from flaws
in former lives. Unredeemed sins.
This torture.

The pain is sharper now, the world more blurred –
bars lining the window, a gentler
smeary-grey. The shackles blend
metal into flesh. How is it possible
for other humans to devise these tortures,
to have the courage to stomp upon
already hollow bodies?
O unspeakable human facility
to harm one another.

The mangoes ripen; the birds, the flies
and squirrels will help themselves
to the ones high up; and those that fall
will be eaten by worms.

I think that those same worms
which have made me
and my grave-mates into soil and bones
will eat those sweet, fallen mangoes.