The persimmon, like an orange, pulpy breast
half tomato, half mango
rests centered against black,
skin to the side, unchewed, unsucked.

My shirt on the floor, yours too
and heat blown through my ridge of hair,
I remember watching you lean down and suck, take the tip
of orange fruit between your lips,
chew

and how you cleaned my fingers after
they had torn sectioned flesh free

leaving a moistness, gaping spot
warmer than your thighs
yet cooler than what is echoed,
what they cradle.

Always you answer my “aye”
with “oui” as if Gaelic were French.
Together we learned to answer
“merci” : “da rien,”
though I’d first say “de nada,” as if, again.

“Fresca fersken” is the closest either can come
to “fruit.”

Those words are yours, like blonde, like grain,
and mean “peaches.” They carry
a sweet weight in their lilt
(and chase death into the round snugness of parentheses).

This sweet indigo secret blossoms
in shadows, bears fruit
seldom tasted in daylight,

its syrup, its nectar
savored—

the memories like chewing
persimmon, like sucking
sweet skin, tearing the texture with teeth,
the grit and the smoothness
words on my tongue,

the juice : ink in my pen.

poems: alphabetical || chronological
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ChaoSpirals