by Selina Li Bi

Mother says
the persimmons
are ready to eat.
They have rested,
soft and freckled,
they have rested,
no longer tart and crisp.

She cuts one into quarters
like an apple,
her fingers knowing
what they know.
She peels the layer of skin
like a sculptor
not to waste the meat.

Outside the rain
taps a frenetic dance,
sideways against the window.
Mother swallows
shadows of the past,
leaving her
stomach empty,
a void I can
not fill.

Lai tsjat,
Mother calls.
Come eat.
I take a slice
of persimmon.
The taste is
not bitter,
but ripe and sweet.

About the Author
Selina Li Bi was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and raised in North Dakota. After practicing as a doctor of optometry for many years, she earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University Moorhead. As a second generation Asian American, the dichotomy of cultures in which she grew up in, weaves its way into her work. Her credits include a children’s story based on her father’s childhood during the Japanese occupation of the Philippines published in Cricket. Her fiction has been published in Red Weather and her poetry has appeared in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and Red Weather.