Persimmon by William Thompson

Persimmon

Lighter than I expected in my palm.

Tomato-smooth, pumpkin-coloured.

A blade glides through it. The flesh

smells sweet, comes off like raw meat

– or is it beetroot, fresh from the jar?

Squat at both poles like the Earth itself.

And at the centre, a stencil drawing

of the North Star – all the way through it

like a stick of rock. Mango in the mouth

but sweeter. To be here with you, my love

and taste. To be here, with my crow’s feet

and your three white hairs, at the end

of June with the weather just on the turn.

William Thompson was born in Cambridgeshire in 1991 and holds a doctorate in Creative Writing from the University of Bristol. His poems have appeared in Poetry Wales, Poetry Birmingham, Bad Lilies, Wild Court, Acumen, The Interpreter’s House and elsewhere. His debut pamphlet After Clare (2022) is published by New Walk Editions.