i was thinking today about where you’d
like to be buried—under the sugar maple,
you told me one summer, standing in the
open doorway as the sky threatened
rain—and it seems to me now an unsuitable
place for a woman whose roots have grown
mangos and whose children have gnawed
on the sinews of your seed. i will
plant your body—no longer you, or even
yours—beneath your mother’s mango tree,
the one you said you used to sit in, picking
mango from your teeth, hiding from
your mother as she stood in the doorway,
calling you home.

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