Vaacuming

Marigolds of lighting and rotten mangoes
rain down upon my shoulders
like your hair, and strawberry lips
whose seeds get stuck between my teeth.

Why did God create the strawberry with seeds?
Plums, peaches, and apricots all have pits
to ground them. Even the apple
has a core, and so does the pair.

Only the strawberry is free, its seeds small enough
to slide between its pores like sweat - red juice
dribbled down my fingers.

Yet its lightness comes at a price: We do not need one,
but many strawberries, to sate our hunger.
 So too, my darling I need many skins, many bones and thighs,
to stick to my tongue like honey - golden and weighted,
it remains faithful to the end, sticking to the crumbs
that will be swept up by my mother's vaacum-cleaner,
sweetening the bits of dust waiting to be sucked into its plastic body,
smooth and unbreakable, faithless as the wind it whips through its teeth,
before dancing over the floor's wooden body, the carpet full of mangoes and marigolds.