Dayna Patterson
Persimmon
Wait for the
first frost
he said
The limbs sag with
fruit
hundreds of swollen green
eggs
wait for the frost
and they will be
pure sugar in your
mouth
Persimmon
is already sugar in the
mouth—
She watches the fruit
ripen
to tangerine
brightness
They're not ready till
they
swell like water
balloons,
near rottenness
She waits
She reflects how
people are like
persimmons
the sweetest mellowed
by the chill touch of
adversity
Her grandfather's
shingles
were a blowtorch to his
chest;
he pinned a sock roll to his
pocket
to keep shirt from grazing burnt
flesh
Yet folks feel like kin, and
kin
like kings in the warmth of his
love
and kindness
She waits for the
frost
and hopes her tongue will
love
the cold
fruit
The Spanish Professor's
Wife
Doesn't
speak Spanish.
She knows enough to
understand
when the homeless woman calls out
huera,
sparking titters among the
group
waiting at the bus
stop.
She can order food at the Mexican
restaurant
(but not without a shivery
stomach,
intruder tripping her
tongue).
Estar and ser: a
mystery.
She took French in
school,
visited France, lived in
Québec.
French is the language of love,
he says.
English the language of business,
he says.
Then, Spanish is the language of
God.
She feels instinctively that he
is right.
No half dropped words,
deceitful consonants, vague
vowels.
Not so Teutonic, clipped,
dominating.
There is a pure openness in
Spanish,
consonants the mouth can
love,
vowels sincere as pilgrim's
vows.
Or maybe she is remembering the
Béquer
on a slip of blue sky
patched to her
windshield.
Or the whispered de
Vega
on the tabernacle
steps.
She remembers half
understanding,
his warm breath,
the rustle of poetry on
paper,
and promises to
learn.
Nursling
Small
fingers sweep
from armpit to
breastbone,
brushing the full
curve of her breast.
She knows the milk
is sweet and rich
from the focus
of his face.
In a moment that feels
something like sin,
curious,
she tastes her own
milk.
In the shower,
dripping and warm,
it pools in her open
palm
white rainwater on a
leaf.
In that crude cup
she dips her tongue like a
cat—
yes,
sweet,
thin like skim.
It leaks from the corner of his
lips
turned up in a crescent
moon
and sweeps his eyes
with spilled
stars.
Dayna
Patterson earned her BA from Utah State University and
her MA in Literature from Texas State University-San
Marcos. She teaches writing at Stephen F. Austin State
University. Her poems have appeared in Persona and Words
Work. She lives with her husband, Charles, and their
daughters, Madeleine and Lily.
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