a poem by a friend

three persimmons in a bowl by traci french

I am sharing how proud I am of my friend Ada. She is a poet and The New Yorker just published her poem, "Crush" in this week's issue. I think this is just a terribly beautiful poem, like many of her poems, and they made a really good choice. And I had a perfect moment when I finished reading the published copy and the world collided a little when I thought of one of my favorite photos by Traci, Three Persimmons In a Bowl. Here, I am presenting both.

Crush
by Ada Limón

Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.

(originally published by the New Yorker Magazine)