to share one fruit. I passed the tree running, 

a pursuit which allows no pockets, no bags.
Needs no equipment. No team.

I was many miles away,
and could not clench my fist.

I told myself to hold my hands like good men
every time they choose not  

to use their strength. 
But a good persimmon 

is already halfway to ruin. 
A ripe fruit falls,

wrinkled and dark.
Too fragile to bear reaching the ground, 

it bursts. Too fragile to bear touch, 
the skin of the fruit I gathered

skidded off. Pulp pushed past 
my knuckles’ best intentions. 

Men can be considered good
for what they don’t do. How small

of a taken action could be a saving 
grace then? I tried again, another day,

dropping a persimmon in the emptiness
between my breasts.

Home, undressed, 
there was only a sweaty smear 

no man could find sensuous.
Some things are best

enjoyed alone. Some things can only be 
enjoyed alone. 

And so, this morning, I eat right 
on the roadside, picking grit from fruit’s soft insides. 

Across town, my husband sleeps. 
Around the world, the hungry and sleepless.  

Here, my fingers so sugared 
I can’t suck them clean.

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