The Pear Tree

there you were, in that ragged denim jacket, frayed at the cuffs, your jeans hanging loose on your bony hips like a torn flag in the hot wind. I’m standing at the kitchen window, watching you reach up into my husband’s pear tree, plucking those fat golden pears one by one, slow, deliberate, like you’re making love to the branches themselves.

and you turn and catch me staring, and flash that boyish grin, teeth white against the sunburn, eyes squinched up like you’re laughing at the universe. and something inside me just caves in, a deep sweet ache low down, and more than that, something darker, me pinning you down, me owning you, wanting to master that soft wandering soul of yours because you’re all drift and no anchor, all yes and no spine.

but Jesus, the way you handle those pears, twisting them gentle off the stem so they drop heavy into your palm, skin taut and sun warm. and I know, I just know they’re wet and exploding sweet inside, dripping down your skinny bamboo fingers, those fingers that later slid under my skirt on the sofa like a snake looking for warm places.

you stretch up, shirt riding high, ribs showing, reaching past the rough bark into the green cool foliage, body long and thin like a reed in the heat, like some hungry serpent climbing toward the sun.

and I’m already gone, already yours, or you mine, I don’t know anymore, only the ache and the pears and the summer day burning us both up slow.

pear juice on her chin,
husband’s tree, my skinny thief—
summer sins drip slow.