Persimmons

scarlet orbs blink
grotesquely
blackened calyxes
crated
and nestled at my parent’s back door

over his shoulder he calls
“Diosperi, you know Cachi,
have one”
a firm invitation to pluck the fruit
hesitates me
but I’m magpied anyways
and with my poor fruit stand etiquette
I poke each one
my finger searching the waterballon skin full of syrupy flesh

I return to the warm olive oil smells
sit silently and peel back the skin
coated in drips
I’m careful not to pull apart the fruit
he looks over
“it’s ripe,” he says.
but my touge carefully reads the flesh
fearful of the unripe
astringent mouthfuls of translucence that could pucker
me for hours.
the sweet stickiness stains my fingertips
despite the display still faintly bitter
I nod in agreement
“ it’s perfect "