The Pear
Katie Bierach
The checkout clerk rang up Wren’s unripe pear:
pale green—its sticker curling on both sides.
And out she stepped into wild, foggy air,
no car, no bus, her toes her trusted ride.
Her clothy skirt let fog twist round her thighs
which wobbled, hungry, after that long night.
While squinting eyes blinked thrice behind her sighs,
she raised the colder flesh and crunched a bite.
The speckled pear dripped clearly freckled juice,
sweeping her arm with sweetened stickiness.
Quick! She licked her arm up—but no use!
Saliva paired with fructose proved a mess.
Her fingers slipped; the wet pear dropped and rolled.
Wren sighed and rose into the foggy cold.
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