Into the Teeth of the Wind
Selected poem from Volume I, Issue 1
Persimmon Girl
In a bright yellow dress
you stand under a canvas awning
next to a table laden with tropical fruit
in the middle of a village market
humming with the commerce
of sari-clad women reaching for fruit
ladling lentils from bulging cowl-necked sacks
and admonishing children
rushing barefoot under ropes among
the swaying poles stuck at odd angles
in the post-monsoon mud.
Your yellow dress is unstained.
It is the sun in the semi-shade,
the axis the artist’s eye picks from
the maelstrom.
As you stand leaning on one arm,
your left shoulder raised lets
the dress drop to show a tawny shoulder
your right hand holds a bright
persimmon level with your lips
slightly parted
your white teeth ready to bite the fruit
and your eyes fixed on the painter
open and daring:
I am here. I am ripe.
What will you do about it?
Persimmon girl.
I’ve planted two persimmon trees
to remind him of you and to please
his senses you helped to sharpen
to make him a man
more alert
for you
and for me.