Crunes
I used to beg for “crunes,”
the dried fruit
like fat, wrinkled
coins in my dad’s hand.
The dark spheres
would appear
from a bright yellow jar
during his lunches.
They had an earthy sweetness,
like the love of
an old woman.
When it was time
for me to leave,
dad would say,
“You may be dismayed.”
I would trudge off,
pondering the sorcery
of adult words—
everything misheard.