The Old Man in White has Given My Mother a Ripe Persimmon Again

But this time she is not pregnant. In this dream, the fruit's puckeredskin droops with sweetness in his palm, beckoning her to come seethis precious gift. She insists that this was for me but that remains

impossible. My body is special, she whispers over the phone. I mustcherish this landscape because all the persimmons tumbling downthe hills and gathering into the valley belongs to me. The orange fruit

with its verdant leaves are hard and glistening because they were notmeant to have dropped so soon while others dangle heavy on its branches.Anyone who leans close can hear a saccharine suckle bursting at my seams

but my island is full of maiden ghosts who hover close to fallen fruit. Whenthe longing to press them between their thighs is too great, together,they dive into the ocean and hunt for clams, cull seaweed to dress themselves,

holding breaths before breaking surface with their bounty. My grandmother's voiceis in every kitchen, asking me to pick up a husband from the ground if I see one worthyas she surveys the box of collapsed acorn persimmons with a spoon in hand.

But I am always surrounded by oceans, the crunch of unripened bodies betweenmy teeth with the ghosts patrolling my shores, making way for this maiden voyage.