We stopped, first, beside the river,
 where forbidden water oozed
 beneath the steel rainbow of the bridge.
 Heat fractured the air, dissolved
 the sandbanks, burned
 the soles of our feet. Trees,
 upended by the hyena’s rage,
 groped for sustenance from the sky.
 There were no ghosts yet; but carcases
 of ants, discarded like old names, 
 marked rims of craters in the sand.
    
 Beyond the bridge, the road bore north
 and, suddenly, there were mangoes. Abandoning
 their branches, they plopped to the ground, 
 bursting like Nyakuyimba’s head to form
 rivulets of yellow in the dust.
 We plundered the roadside, not heeding
 the grey lourie’s call – go away,
 go away – until time overtook us 

 and we drove on, to where the earth
 leaks scalding water.  We floated 
 with our bounty in the pools
 and ate exuberantly,
 peeling the turpentine skins,
 sucking flesh from fibrous pips
 as juice ran down our chins. 

 That evening, we lit kerosene lamps
 in imitation of the stars.
 We talked about infinity
 as moths bruised their wings against the glass,
 mosquitoes whined around our heads
 and the night croaked.

 Now I buy mangoes neatly packaged,
 ‘ripe and ready’. I slice away 
 the skin to expose the flesh
 beneath. No bird sings. 

This poem first appeared in Allegro Poetry Issue 23, in December 2019.