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.