A lifetime’s worth of spinning, 
and all virtue stumbles, 
enmity circling pupils like rings of ebony
ink the bark of the persimmon tree.
Branches beckon like the arms of 
my mother, calloused by the abandonment 
of men who knew her fragility 
and whispered honeysuckle promises still—
They spooned hope into her mouth 
and scratched filth into her soul
before leaving her to cradle Guilt 
against a pitted chest.
Sweetness fills the air, wafting 
from the single persimmon she bears.
But hidden among foliage grown 
thick and disheveled,
it is small and nearly rotten.
Enchanted by the tangled fortress 
and baited by the promise of fruit,
foolish little boys climb high into her leaves.
Dancing drunkenly, she savors 
the taste of dulcet deceit.
Bitterness has hardened soil to asphalt,
and her teeth bare no mercy.
It hardly takes a second—
A second split into fragments,
and fragments as many as there are
bones scratching the ground.

Kei Lim ’25 is a staff writer

Will Ranyard ’24 is a staff artist