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58 Mango Jacket of green, orange, roseblush— smooth dress for a parakeet. A pearl of green where it broke from its stem, an almost sweet lemon scent that pushes out the evening’s purple shades into whispers: soirée, soirée, soirée . . . To open a mango run a blade through its flat side till juice, dripping, reveals its inhabitant a stone hard as the wood that bore it, inside trophy to be thrown to the birds with a bit of regret for the deception of true love— that so much of its weight is not its whole flesh and roundness longing for sweetness: Mango, mango, tango, te quiero, te quiero mango. ...

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