I place you by the 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've 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-petalled stem the eye of God in the Temple's dome,
tabernacle 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.