The Persimmon Tree
"I saw the sun as one green light
like a green persimmon. Angel fruit.
A green sun like a green apple."
Why am I caught by the persimmon tree,
tall against the Spanish campo?
Drawn by the hard fruit bowing
its branches to the ground, I circle its trunk,
creeping around it at a distance like the moths
corkscrewing the citronella candles.
It’s that the fruit seems so foreign, solid,
no trace of the squished blush, the sharon
that I know by its Hebrew name.
In Israel my grandmother would quarter
it onto my tongue saying suck,
soft sweet seeds filling my mouth
until my cheeks blistered on the acrid
skin. Suck, she’d command, suck!
Aviva Dautch is a frequent visitor to the Almassera Vella. She is Senior Interfaith and Education Policy Officer for the Board of Deputies of British Jews and a Creative Educator for the British Library where she leads workshops about Sacred Texts. The poem was published in the 'Agenda Broadsheet' 10 (www.agendapoetry.co.uk) for young artists between 15 and 30.