The flesh of the persimmon is a bit
like Amanda’s ache – no end to it.
My husband likes to eat persimmons
with walnuts and has little patience
for Amanda’s daily braying. Tragedy,
he says, feeds narcissism. A mouth
can fall into a persimmon – no core,
no seeds, no membrane separating
wedges, slowing an appetite down.
It’s cruel for my husband to belittle
Amanda (her husband left two weeks
ago), cruel to create an analogy
between suffering and fruit. Persimmon
is a joyful taste and shouldn’t be
ruined by negative associations.
I love my husband, though we bicker
like monkeys after long days working
jobs that are beneath us, though he often
doesn’t enjoy a persimmon like
he should. Amanda drops by and the den
becomes humid with despair. My husband
hides in the bedroom. We are happy
with or without persimmons, though our
preference is to share the occasional
ripe indulgence. Sometimes we despise
Amanda for her spoiled heart.
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