"The Mango Tree"

I often feel like the moments of sheer uncertainty in my life are the ones in which I end up feeling the most nostalgic. Perhaps my memories, often of my childhood, act as a buffer between the fear of not knowing what lies ahead and the anticipation of the novelty in what lies ahead. I had a fairly idyllic childhood in Ghana, and the memories I've retained of that time surface more when I need additional certainty in my life.

Tonight, I've decided to share one poem I wrote several years ago. It is set in Ghana - I've written a few poems set in Ghana; I'm sure I'll write more. I think it's interesting how the seeds of creativity often seem to stem from places much farther back in my memory than I often anticipate. This poem took me by surprise once I had written it, and even more so once it had been work shopped by others. Perhaps it's the somewhat darker turn at the end - I'll let you come to your own conclusions. Bon nuit.

"The Mango Tree"

The day I found snake skins on my swing,  

draped like discarded clothes thrown on the bed,

Daddy said I couldn’t play in it anymore.

The mambas, shedding and cranky, had taken over my tree.

That season I stayed near the veranda and watched the branches

start to bend with rains and ripe fruit,

sagging like arms stretching to touch toes.

We picked mangoes carefully that year, alert

for a darting flash of bright green against black bark

and sage-colored leaves. I decided the mambas had left,

leaving behind their skins and S-shaped signatures in the dirt.

I was still told to stay away from the tree, so I did,

except for one day. Toting two Barbies and a picnic,

I climbed into the Y halfway up the trunk.

There were noises – my brother crying,

the thump of coconuts hitting the ground.

I heard the wind in the leaves.

When I felt the sting, sharp and burning, I laid my dolls side by side,

rigid and staring up at the light piercing the canopy.

I turned to look at my foot and saw the black ant

crawling up my ankle and the red welt swelling my toe.

I watched the ant travel to my knee, then brushed him away.

Once I’d gathered my dolls and jumped, I looked up:

one silky skin, caught on the knotted branch above my swing,

fluttered in the breeze.

Emily Anne Decker (2009)