Persimmon Poem Poem by Fiona Wright

after Marjorie Barnard

At first cut
it collapses like a slashed tire.
This translucent flesh
a fecundity that defies politeness,
the tidy.

My sharp lap
and angled fingers intrude.
Shaped like a young woman's breast, she said.
This fat and pulpy spill.

I am recovering, I too.
My mind as transparent and tender as new skin
in these,
the blazing autumn afternoons
where light falls thick and desperate,

my vegetable garden glowing gold
and pulpy-red.
I always thought this a female fruit,
revelled in the lush tautology.

Seeds crack between my teeth.
The pit is pronged and angular.
I'm glad
this portends a mild winter.