Where There Are No Mango Trees Poem by Leonard Dabydeen

I sat on the rubble
with my back against a shivering post:
I couldn't care less
if it were asking me
to move my behind;
it felt like there was nothing behind
to worry about after all this.

My eyes were too frightened to close;
I wanted to believe they were afraid
to sleep like everything around me -
afraid they were not going to open again;
I was unable to remember
if there were any tears, too;
crying was the least of my concern.

I looked at the battered buildings
along the shoreline -
so innocent in their crumbled posture:
through gaping holes of bruised concrete,
the wind was whistling a sad melody
as the ocean waves loitered
aimlessly along the shoreline,
as if they were guilty of something:
maybe they were looking at me;
or for me -
how should I know.

I stayed in my fetal posture,
with mournful sounds
torturing my soul from the pebbles
and rocks uncaring for company;
mice scurrying in every direction:
it felt as if they were being freed
from slavery and oppression;
indentureship, too;
freedom was like blind joy to them:
can you imagine their diaspora?

Unable to recall how hope
became my friend,
but feeling it was all that I had
from the old fruit-peddler from
the streets of Chacabuco:
I stood my ground -until he visited me
to join him picking mangoes…
where there are no mango trees.