In sixth grade Mrs. Walker

slapped the back of my head

and made me stand in the corner

for not knowing the difference

between persimmon and precision.

How to choose

 

persimmons.  This is precision.

Ripe ones are soft and brown spotted.

Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one will be fragrant.

How to eat: put the knife away, lay down newspaper.

Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.

Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow.

Now, eat the meat of the fruit, so sweet,

all of it to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.

In the yard, dewy and shivering with crickets,

we lay naked,

face-up, face-down.

I teach her Chinese.

Crickets: chu chu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.

Naked: I’ve forgotten.

Ni, wa: you and me.

I part her legs,

remember to tell her

she is beautiful as the moon.

 

Other words that got me in trouble were

fight and fright, wren and yarn.

Fight was what I did when I was frightened,

fright was what i felt when I was fighting.

Wrens are small, plain birds,

yarn is what one knits with.

Wrens are soft as yarn.

My mother made birds out of yarn.

I loved to watch her tie the stuff;

a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

 

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class

and cut it up so everyone could taste

a Chinese apple.

Knowing it wasn’t ripe or sweet,

I didn’t eat, but watched the other faces.

 

My mother said every persimmon had a sun

inside, something golden, glowing,

warm as my face.

 

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,

forgotten and not yet ripe.

I took them both and set them on my bedroom windowsill,

where every morning a cardinal sang, The sun, the sun.

 

Finally understanding

he was going blind,

my father sat up all one night

waiting for a song,

a ghost, or something.

I gave him the persimmons,

swelled, heavy as sadness,

and sweet as love.

 

This year, in the muddy lighting of my parents’ cellar,

I rummage, looking for something I lost.

My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,

black cane between his knees, hand over hand,

gripping the handle.

He is so happy that I’m home.

I ask him how his eyes are, a stupid question.

All gone, he answers.

 

Under some blankets, I fend a box of three scrolls.

I sit by him and untie them.

Three paintings by my father:

Hibiscus leaf, a white flower.

Two cats preening.

Two persimmons, so full they want to drop off the cloth.

 

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,

asks, Which is this?

 

This is persimmons, Father.

 

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,

the strength, ther perfect tension

in the wrist.

I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed.

These I painted blind.

Some things never leave a person;

scent of the hair of one you love,

the texture of persimmons,

in your palm, the ripe weight.