Sitting on my bed bent like a shrimp,
palms red from slavish writing,
eyes heavy like my shoulders,
it’s been a century since I've started.

Then -
my bedroom door slams the wall,
louder than bamboo bursting,
my pencil slips through my fingers,
hands trembling.

My father barges in
red as a tomato’s fury:

“Sakwé bétiz,
everyday you live
is a day I regret signing
that paper at Civil Status.”

I close my eyes,
at first, darkness,
then, the blinding light
of the imaginary sun.

In that space of my mind, it’s an afternoon:
the heat of this world's sun, scorches,
I sit clenching the grass that stretches the boundless distance,

the seemingly infinite mango trees,
unlimited fruits, the endless shadows of leaves,
looming over me,
the sky exhales a breeze,
branches shake,
The scent of ripe fruit’s travels,
The leaves soar,
This absence of sound I adore.

This place,
is all I wanted,
escapism from my prison
This place,
Illustrated inner peace
the perfect getaway from commitment.

Until-
under the leaves,
a mangos falls down,
Rotten, as opposed to ripe.
Then another-
soft, split open,
dark at the center.

The grass in my fists wilts,
edges curling into my palms.
His voice crawls inside,
This place isn’t as perfect as i thought,
I realized such is real life,

The lesson lingered quietly,
there was no escape in the garden,
nor was there any control,
It was only the shape,
of what I tried to leave behind.

I opened my eyes,
Back To my room,
Still sitting,
hands still shaking,

The door still swaying slightly,
The pencil on the bed,
Everything is in the same position.

And for a moment,
even after i opened my eyes,
I could still smell a mango.