cold persimmons line the picnic table/ sweating onto old newspapers oma/ bernie kept from the 60s for cases/ of spilt milk and other accidents/ waiting to happen./ oma bernie holds a persimmon,/ short and squat,/ in her/ crabwise hand,/ and cuts the fruit/ into wedges,/ sculpting vibrant/ blips of timber/ and poetry/ to offer/ me./ braised/ cherries and stewed peaches/ soak inside the kitchen sink/ just beyond the screen door, slammed/ shut in the heat of summer and arguments/ oma bernie tells me ghosts still wake/ to the songs of birds and three-eyed cats/ cooing on the window sill/ joining her for morning breakfast teas,/ and mama says i am the one/ with a wild imagination./ but, i think i believe in ghosts too/ because when opa joe died/ i sat in front of his rocking chair/ and watched him plop down/ and fold his liver-spotted hands/ over his big belly, and he didn’t say anything/ but i knew it was opa joe/ because he was eating stale red licorice/ from the drawer with old halloween candy/ and only we/ ever ate that licorice./ i share this with oma bernie,/ and she becomes still while a cool breeze licks over/ our persimmons./ i get the feeling/ she doesn’t believe me as she slides/ the bowl across cold wet newspaper,/ bleeding ink/ and casts a wry smile—/ that is all she gives up/— she goes inside to bring the other/ summer fruits/ to a boil/ and i chew on crisp persimmons/ and wonder if i will see/ a ghost bird/ and other magic.
jessie caitlin bullard (she/her, they/them) is a queer neurodivergent writer and educator in southern California. Their work draws curiosity from embodied experience, grief, coming of age, memoir, and experimental forms. jessie’s work has been published in several print and online publications, including Stone Fruit Magazine, White Stag Journal, The Raven Review, 422, and Tiny Spoon.
photo by Gabriella Clare Marino and Suzy Hazelwood (via unsplash and pexels, respectively)
Crow & Cross Keys 