my mother and I lived alone. She liked
their red-orange opulence against the sky.

For my nineteenth birthday you joined us
at Norman's. The walls were hung with surreal nudes.

We spooned our cream of chervil soup, the same
pale green as that bare haunch above her head.

That night she came to my room: I think you're sleeping
with him. The way you two looked at those pictures . . .

I'm not, I protested. I couldn't bring myself
to say, I want to but you told me not to.

When you came by the next evening, under the tree
you stooped in the wet leaves and raised me

on your shoulders. We were so young. The persimmons
hung just out of reach. Tightening my thighs

around your neck, I strained up and loosened
the smooth fruit. One by one they dropped into my hand--

chill, heavy-fleshed, burning in their thin silk slips.