Persimmon

I place you by my window so your skin can receive the setting sun,
so your flesh will yield to succulence, lush with juice,
so the saints of autumn will bless your flaming fruit

because cancer has left me tired

because when I visit God’s houses, I enter and leave alone
not even in the melting beeswax, and swinging musk of incense
has God visited me, not when I’ve bowed or kneeled or sung

because I have found God instead when I crouched in bathrooms,
lain back for the burning of my skin, covered my face and cursed

Persimmon: votive candle at the icon of my kitchen window
your four-petaled stem the eye of God in the Temple’s dome,
tabernacle of pulp and seed
dwelling place for my wandering prayers

I am learning from you how to praise

Because when your body bruises and softens, you are perfected
because your soul, persimmon, is sugar.