THEN I BROUGHT YOU

Then I brought you a persimmon
and we ate it at the café near the sea.
It was probably autumn or the end of summer
because the sun sank early into the water
round as a fruit and just as beloved.

Oh, beautiful autumn, season of poets

And at the beginning of spring, don’t mention the loquat,
and at the end, the blackberry, fruit of lovemaking
staining your lips one and then another
and a hidden curtain descends on what remains
crimson from memory.

Oh, fruit of my life, I split open from one season to the next

When was it, which season
in the back of the bus, in the dark
we sat on something warm and steaming
and ate sweet dried figs
depleted like a bag of bones

THEN I BROUGHT YOU