By Rose McLarney
“Cheetos Fingers,” by Lindsay Metivier, lindsaymetivier.com
I have tried to carry a persimmon home,
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.
there was only a sweaty smear
no man could find sensuous.
Some things are best
enjoyed alone. Some things can only be
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.