It is true: all words are invented. I have names in three languages. What’s the word for this?
*
My mother brings home persimmons from the market. She names them. Washes them gently, so as not
to bruise.
My father opens the persimmons. He names them. Reveals how they are somehow darker on the inside
than the out.
*
I eat persimmons, ruminating on poetry. Turning the words of it over in my mouth with each chew.
Each bite a new language. With the taste comes the remembering. So much what are you. There are
two kinds of persimmons. In English, they are the same.
I define myself: a hybrid child, heart-shaped and ready. I celebrate the sweet flesh of myself. Call myself.
Name myself. Create a fortune of myself. I am looking for words, but why?
The persimmons are right there.
—————
Saba Keramati is a Chinese-Iranian writer from California. She holds degrees in English Literature and Creative Writing from University of Michigan and UC Davis. Her work appears or is forthcoming in AGNI, Adroit Journal, The Margins, and elsewhere. She is the poetry editor at Sundog Lit. For more, visit www.sabakeramati.com or follow her on Twitter @sabzi_k.