I Think of Grief When Eating Persimmons

as my parallel descent darkens, August's wound will dull

the way a morning dew's dust can weep

i will cry for my mother's pride

as i hurl myself at her feet

for years of stubbornness from disgust

disgust for broken accents in grocery stores

disgust for richness of oxtail soup

disgust for teaching myself America's coattails

    how to smile when saying thank you

    how to use fork and knife at dinner tables

    how to pronounce lavender    

    how to tip waiters

    how to escape house when he finishes a third bottle

    how to apologize

    how to write an email

    how to realize generosity's hand is not always stained

despite owning disgust 

breaking for tragedy,

i can rationalize that tragedy is not quite loss

but rather,

a fruit of consideration; 

an utter dependence on others

a fruit that i sharply bite 

    when i strike a line through my sevens

    when i write my e's with a tilt

    when i walk through koreatown and the ajumma storewoman's hair and clothes and back and walk                 and air and arrogance look just like her's

so by the time i swallow i will know

despite the tragedies, fruits, disgusts

i can simply be and only be 

my mother's daughter