persimmon

the already sweaty flesh of my legs — a woman — an old white woman — carrying a satchel of

fruit and flowers — persimmon, poppy, petunia, peruvian lily — my legs still ocean shores — an

approach — an old white approach — she calls me beautiful — and my lover, next to me, she

calls Peter — though that is not his name — she lurches and teaches us something about love —

a word so sweet against that — saccharine tongue of hers — she says she's met Peter before — at

a church on oak street — how handsome the moment becomes — the jay between Peter's fingers

flickers — and she, only seeing it now, tells Peter to put it out — only seeing me now, tells me to

cover up — the already sweaty flesh of my legs — wretches against the wooden bench — her

words sweat out more than she can bleed — sweat the sweet out of summer's sense — and i

become like Elijah — or was it John the Baptist? — yes, John the Baptist — eating locust and

wild honey — wearing linen of sheepskin or goatskin — or whatever it was — that is to say — i

find that i am more zoo to her — than sweet-soaked legs — her words more like sweat-lined

poison to me — i’ve met you before — haven’t i? — haven’t —

Peter, my lover, vigorously shakes his head no.