Persimmons

My mother calls them gahm,

savoring the round vowel.

When she pares off the skins,

they fall away like strips of ribbon.

Clusters of firm, waxy planets

slung low on a strained branch,

the tree a sudden stab of color

on the drab East L.A. corner.

The box arrives in fall, white

postal service cardboard wet

in the corners where the fruits

have already spilled their juice.

Faced with the open box, I think

my mother’s word, but aloud exclaim

“persimmons.” Persimmons,

the word in the only language I own.