Persimmon from Woolston New World
imagine your waxed case teeth-torn, a
blood-orange across a harvest moon
a satisfying weight in the palm of your hand.
your crown curls heart-shaped leaves gleefully
out of the underworld: a calyx. And it is said
that your flesh bears bitter-acrid ignorance
through to sweet wisdom in maturity.
A glut of abundance since the death of god.
Seed roots in the shape of a spoon
suggest a snowy winter ahead.
A knife, icy. Fork and it will be mellow.
When dried you frighten striped tigers
a slink of black and then on either side:
that colour of your ripe skin again.