Persimmons, a poem about memory

Persimmons * (1986)

Li-Young Lee

(b. 1957)

     In sixth grade Mrs. Walker

     slapped the back of my head

     and made me stand in the corner

     for not knowing the difference

     between persimmon and precision.

     How to choose

     persimmons. This is precision.

     Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.

     Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one

     will be fragrant. How to eat:

     put the knife away, lay down newspaper.

     Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.

     Chew the skin, suck it,

     and swallow. Now, eat

     the meat of the fruit,

     so sweet,

     all of it, to the heart.

     Donna undresses, her stomach is white.

     In the yard, dewy and shivering

     with crickets, we lie naked,

     face-up, face-down.

     I teach her Chinese.

     Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.

     Naked: I've forgotten.

     Ni, wo: you and me.

     I part her legs,

     remember to tell her

     she is beautiful as the moon.

     Other words

     that got me into trouble were

     fight and fright, wren and yarn.

     Fight was what I did when I was frightened,

     fright was what I felt when I was fighting.

     Wrens are small, plain birds,

     yarn is what one knits with.

     Wrens are soft as yarn.

     My mother made birds out of yarn.

     I loved to watch her tie the stuff;

     a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

    Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class

     and cut it up

     so everyone could taste

     a Chinese apple. Knowing

     it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat

     but watched the other faces.

     My mother said every persimmon has a sun

     inside, something golden, glowing,

     warm as my face.

     Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,

     forgotten and not yet ripe.

     I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,

     where each morning a cardinal

     sang, The sun, the sun.

     Finally understanding

     he was going blind,

     my father sat up all one night

     waiting for a song, a ghost.

     I gave him the persimmons,

     swelled, heavy as sadness,

     and sweet as love.

     This year, in the muddy lighting

     of my parents' cellar, I rummage, looking

     for something I lost.

     My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,

     black cane between his knees,

     hand over hand, gripping the handle.

     He's so happy that I've come home.

     I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.

     All gone, he answers.

     Under some blankets, I find a box.

     Inside the box I find three scrolls.

     I sit beside him and untie

     three paintings by my father:

     Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.

     Two cats preening.

     Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

     He raises both hands to touch the cloth,

     asks, Which is this?

     This is persimmons, Father.

     Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,

     the strength, the tense

     precision in the wrist.

     I painted them hundreds of times

     eyes closed. These I painted blind.

Some things never leave a person:

     scent of the hair of one you love,

     the texture of persimmons,

     in your palm, the ripe weight.

Source: 

http://www.wwnorton.com/college/english/nap/persimmons_lee.htm