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.