Persimmons
I do not know how old I am
When I first taste their putrid pulp
Only that I already know by then
To silently swallow the taste
Of sickening dread,
When their silken skins slide over my tongue
Lest I wish to be rewarded with the shrill sound of
Censure.
For my piety I receive many more
Of those unctuous orbs of oozing,
Weeping
Wicked, sorry excuses
For a mother’s
Warmth.
I come to resent the monstrous Moon,
For her indifferent gaze
When those groves of gentle green turn
To that harsh umbrage of harvest
A chilling courtesy, a quiet caution of my fate:
Soon left alone
Under a barren sky
With only those loathsome lanterns
Of offending ochre-red.
On each slick, sticky bite
On each spine-shattering squelch
I am promised a life of everlasting prosperity
If only I should meekly receive the grand gift of
Obedience.
But how can I bear with open arms
A present so ponderous
That I must genuflect with monumental grace?
How could I possibly don that damned cloak
Embroidered so thick with
Expectation?
Instead of taking my fill of those plump persimmons
Grotesque and gorged by our suffocating superstitions
Instead of their sanguine sweetness
I would rather drown in a dark brew of cinnabarite
Let that vibrant vermillion ruddle
A heart so fettered by fury
And unravel our tangled
Heritage.
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