[easy-media med=”7935″ mark=”gallery-gk7HF0″]by Brendan Walsh

Fall is here. Too long rain drowned
my clean heels, clouds hung at my neck.

At work, the new foreign teacher struggles
with chopsticks, looks hungry, lonely,
always sleepless. I ask if he eats kgam—
persimmon—in America;
he knows the word, not the flavor.

Today I bring him one, section it,
put it on his desk, napkin-wrapped.

When he returns from teaching,
he tastes Korean autumn; subtle,
honeyed, brief. He thanks me, says
I am so kind. He talks too fast,
but gives me half the fruit, insists.

I eat and stare at his nose.
He chews through smiles.

I notice now, this one is not yet ripe.

Masan, South Korea