Last year was all peaches, and strawberries, and you. This year I’m trying to lose myself in the sweetness of mangoes, the tang of citrus. See I’ve spent this year learning about the meaning of flowers and wondering when I stopped being able to use my words. When everything turned into a string of metaphors that leads me back to your mouth. So maybe the butterflies are hatching, and we’re all so susceptible to the power of pollen that when allergy season starts, we’re all falling in love again. And maybe winter blues don’t feel lonely because they echo back your name, but the warm months do because it’s the time of the year I didn’t get to have you. So I’m out grocery shopping, and I’m forming poems about how I don’t know if your mouth tasted like strawberries or if strawberries taste like your mouth but either way, I can’t stomach them anymore. I’m weighing mangoes. I’m zesting oranges over my cuts. I’m planting 98¢ roses and hoping they’ll bloom where our love couldn’t.
— Mango Season, Angelea Lowes