If a Haden mango, full with sun,
and an ovoid Irwin, that ornament
of dawn, drop at the same time from
panicles equivalent in height,
will they accelerate identically
despite degrees of heft, of maturity,
the knowledge of their own ripeness?
Physics says yes, despite mass, even
if it’s a late-season Beverly, still green,
set upon too early by a squirrel
sitting on its stem, or an Indian mango
five pounds large, swaying all summer,
too big for the basket of the tool
I wield like lightning to strike
a singular fruit. The damage, then:
That should be equal, too. But all things
considered, there is no free fall. Air,
on a humid whim, can change
its resistance, and there is no formula
to adjust for the destructive means
of a mango during descent, helicoptering
sap through the day’s work of spiderwebs,
a season of boat-shaped leaves that bear
those burns until they themselves release,
and the twigs it breaks without discrimination,
whether they are ready to reach like hands
or be struck down to ground. And the ground,
which could be oolite or limestone, grass
or a brother mango, the driveway
or the chemical buffer of pool water,
my shoulder or arm or skull, willing to take
the aromatic knock. I know the parts
of the equation: limb, fruit, gravity. But not
the sum, upon landing. Wholly bruised? Flesh
protected by deflection? Or a split that, turned
every possible way, simply, dumbly smiles?