Persimmon

You lift me to the fruit

To unwieldy heights, to cadmium jewels,

A persimmon, and moss on my finger

With sorrel in our mouths and

Departure, like a leash around our throats,

Strained at the breadth of our histories.

I endure the zeal of your affection,

Its shuddering, maniacal fervor

Your industrious hands lost to morsel, scent –

The keepsakes of this valediction.

But I wrap myself in mystery 

My stonewall, winter season of silence.

Only a few lonely fruits, oregano there, mud on our shoes, a lull.

I fear your idolatry; it is looming,

Monstrous, above me like an obelisk

I read your fantasies in the hieroglyphics

As you press me against the tree with tremendous need.