Ripe for the picking.

I used to want to astral project in my dreams so I could fly.

Then I experienced it,

In a car, when a man pulled me down

And forced me to smell chamomile.

The petals scattered in my hair,

On my shirt.

That wasn’t so bad, was it? He said.

The thin, delicate stems.

Bright yellow blossoms,

The pungent, sweet scent.

I walked home alone in the cold and couldn’t feel it.

Sometimes I can’t feel when I smell it.

Then I experienced it again,

The smell of mangoes. Ripe for the picking.

“Mango juice is supposed to get you higher,” he said, passing me the joint.

He handed me the empty glass next to his bed.

I was trying to focus on my feet,

Trying to decipher if this was a nightmare.

“Can you go get me more juice?”

I don’t feel much like flying anymore.