The mango grows in a myriad of colours,
Ripening on the tree until it’s time to pick,
Hanging heavy on the high branch, with a rich sap
Syrup like, dark, rich and thick.
The teacher at my daughter’s school is striking dark,
She is a soulful colour, a thick darkened brown,
Her rich accent sounds like warm melting chocolate
Bought from the high end of town.
Cut and carried, the mango sits round, green and blush,
Washed, rinsed and warm and waiting with a flavour bold,
And when the ever warm turning colour is right,
Then its quickly bought and sold.
The teacher is not like an odd piece of clothing
That we have to match, like a shirt and pair of pants
She is not a slow, slow song chosen to be played
For a fast and moving dance.
Brought home the mango sits gently placed in the bowl,
Sits among other fruit of yellow, red and green.
Like it should never be seen.
The teacher is not like a piece of furniture,
A chair, or a sofa that doesn’t match the decor
Or a square woven rug that just seems somehow wrong
On that clean polished floor.
Do we question the tint of fruit in the fruit bowl?
And we do not laugh at the colour of the sky.
So why then does the beautiful dark brown teacher,
Sit for the mirror and cry.