Pear
So I now holding a handful of wet pear body
and a question awkward:
what you are
that refuses to settle to words
but leaves me naked as paper bowls,
and a mind
rife with ideas for how you'd look
draped for a kissing which
like any other:
gums tongue stuck spit,
sits immediate in theory
though sharper,
more needy (of course)
in its absence.
Our meeting instead ashake with the unsaid
and inopportune - see
how you rise,
tricky
from a plate tray,
erasing the room
as I bite off the nose of a pear and am picking my teeth from its skin.
You ask,
my guts are a handshake,
I nod,
if
my unsteady
my thighs flinch; throat twists
I will
rip zips and squeeze flesh
button it
come with you both
for drinks.
I make a meal of my excuses; I'm torn
but seriously
if not for my new shoes
silly with blisters
and period on
I'd happily follow the two of you later,
fretting with dried mouths, slow conversation:
she, bickering over your sister and more wine,
you, unpicking her stitches by lesson
and pressing for cash like a baby
for worms.