Bloody knuckled and wet
haired, we pick and scrape at dirty
glass, but the ice is its own master. Alley cats
watch from atop fence lines. City birds
perch in a barren oak, sponging up

cold morning sun. They measure
time differently - without these
obligations to their societies. No need
to scurry back to glowing screens and
earpieces inside tiny cubes, to shuffle
other's hypotheticals to and fro.

They stare pitifully at our
clumsy bodies, bumbling machines. We heave
on the up swings -
down on the back,
then slide free. Today

we've earned our breakfast, but still
wish someone else were cooking.
We love this winter
game -hate its rules and its
players.

Persimmons

Persimmonsby Li-Young Lee

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet,
all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down.
I teach her Chinese.
Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.
Naked: I’ve forgotten.
Ni, wo: you and me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
Fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat
but watched the other faces.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang, The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father sat up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons,
swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.

My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.
He’s so happy that I’ve come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find a box.
Inside the box I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?
This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.

Offensive Defense

Did you ever know someone who did a little time in prison, maybe a lot of time? Ever notice how they are forever look'n at folks like they're still out in the yard? Look'n them up and down with the slightest flick of an eye. It's the sort of thing you would probably never notice someone doing unless you're sizing them up too.
This is how I walk through the city, taking a physical inventory of the people (the men, really) who are passing by me. I'm profiling them and I'm primarily concerned with their size.

"Could I take this fella down?"

That's what I'm asking myself about each of them. Sometimes the answer comes quick - "No doubt" or "Oh, not a chance" - but generally more information is needed to make a determination. In these instances I move into an analysis of their individual specifics.

For example, if dude is big, what kind of big is he? No matter if he's tall or short, if the back of his neck wrinkles like a pack of all beef hotdogs then he is likely slow and easily winded. This improves my odds. If he is beefcake big he's likely got a bit more stamina but his range of motion could be compromised, like a toddler at the pool with those safety-orange arm floaties. I'll try out maneuvering him. Perhaps I can take advantage of an environmental factor like a large trash can I can position between us and buy a few moments to consider my next move.

The most hypothetically dangerous body type is the average man - average height, average weight, all-around average. His natural strength will exceed mine and his agility will at least match mine. This is where things get thick. My hypothetical defense plan now depends on more intel, so my analysis continues.

"How is my man dressed?"

If it appears that he spends more than 25 minutes preening between his shower and leaving the house (which is about what I spend on a bad day) then he is a pretty boy and cares more about his clothes than would allow him to get them messed up in a scuffle. This sort of randomized, opportunistic assault would not be his MO, not for today. He’s just not dressed for it.

This can, of course, be overridden by the ‘grit factor.’ If he’s clenching his teeth and pulling his jaw tight enough to slice cheese or his lip is raised just enough to flare a nostril and squint an eye then he is not to be reckoned with. He’s completely unpredictable and I’ll put some space between us if I can do so discreetly.

It sounds like an endless process but all this really happens almost simultaneously. Within a fraction of a second I’ve observed all the information I need and it will take only a moment more to make my inferences. As of yet, the fair citizens of Washington have been spared the unleashing of my hypothetical wrath.