You Know What They Say About Pears

Robert Miltner

You Know What They Say About Pears

FRUMPY, HEAVY-HIPPED, green with envy of apples, I've seen pears wearing babushkas and dragging grocery bags of celery and cabbage home in pull carts past West 88th and Detroit, near my grandmother's old house. Grainy sweet like candy eaten at the beach, freckled in or out of the sun, the pear is the younger child all brothers and sisters watch out for, but never want to play with. At night, the pears-Bartlett and Bosc, Seckel and d'Anjou-cry themselves to sleep, sad from being the shape of teardrops, tongueless bells unable to celebrate, quotation marks fearing there is nothing inside them to say.


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