You say it’s because of your ancestors,
not tactile hallucinations, or
a sterile diagnosis. It’s because
of all the things you saw
in those dirt bunkers of stench and uniforms
Things these young American doctors and
your American daughter
can’t fathom-don’t understand
All these years later something
in your mind has begun to rewind
and you remember
Your father, a shadow without a face,
crouched down, his body eclipsed
by gunfire and hunger
Your mother, cutting the flesh of
a burnt orange persimmon while
the leaves curled outside
Knife in one hand, love in the other,
a wisp of a November memory
miracle that survived a diaspora
Ghosts now live in your mouth
where she once filled it.
You slice the cadmium-colored sun in half
to find a star-once-seed –
a resurrection sermon. Koreans say,
“We should always leave
a few persimmons on the trees for the magpies”
The bittersweet bites of fruit
received, pieces of hope like little anchors
sinking into my sadness
I swallow them. I ask Jesus
to leave a few memories like persimmons
on the trees for my mom and me
Please Leave a Few Persimmons on The Trees
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