An ajumma, in the subway seats
reserved for
women of her age, eats

with bare hands
a persimmon, overripe, deep

orange & dripping like a dying sun.

She cups and seems to drink it
like a prisoner drinks
water, face & hands shiny with pulp.

All the while she stares at me—
as all Koreans did—with a look

too subtle for an American,

unless he had studied
their language,
knew the eyes’ narrowing, as

she branded me
woegukin—

outsider.