Whispers

Dry lips to ebony locks,

she presses a kiss against my hair,

fleeting and chaste,

yet delicate.

A breath against my scalp,

warm against the cool night air

my mother inhales,

citrus shampoo and something sweet.

Mango.

Too sweet.

Too sweet to be the mangos of Vietnam,

the limbs tangled in branches

and soft skin against bark.

To be a slender hand

reaching, pulling, grasping

for warm red and orange.

Tell me more.

Though sleep tugs at my voice,

my mind is

awake.

A sigh and an arm wraps around me,

her body framing mine

like two crescent moons

hidden in the cover of night.