Carving Fruit


This morning one was bruised among the whole,

turned brown between the gold.  To leave it there

would threaten smoother skins.  I cleared the bowl


and put the perfects somewhere dry, the pear

still in my hand a spotted sun.  His feet,

work-cracked, sounded on stairs.  He saw it there.


As someone well acquainted with the sweet

fragility of pears,  he found a frown

and then a knife to salvage still-good meat.


He carved along the yellow turning brown

and let the curling peel spill from the blade – 

a moist release, a spiral falling down


to soak newspaper ads.  We watched the fade

of juice between the gray and white, the tart

bite of the syrup cutting words.  He stayed


and ate the pear in peelings to the heart,

and saved for last the bruise, the sweetest part.


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