Nineteen persimmons
on my kitchen table
sink into themselves
in a cardboard box.
I ease back the skin
of each sublime fruit
with the fillet knife
given me by grandfather
when he found out
I hike alone now.

The color of persimmon
is everywhere.
I'm spackled with it.
It drips off my shin.
I let it sluice through
fingers and down my leg
because it replaces longing
for your mouth.

The truth is
getting out of bed early
every chilly Saturday morning
and riding my bike to the farmers'
market to inspect persimmons
and flirt with the guy
who sells delicata squash
replaces slow sex
between the flannel sheets
I bought for you.