Despair

Despair

The pear in the refrigerator, the pear
you put out on the table, the pear

you placed square in the center
of the first ray of dawn, the pear

that whiled away the hours in the sun,
the pear that ripened as slowly

and obscenely as a mistress slipping
down her thong, the pear that waited

then gave up like a wife who eats her cold
dinner alone, the only pear

in the refrigerator, the lone pear
you put out on the table before

you left at dawn, the sole pear
you told me not to eat because

it was the pear you’d picked
from the tree with your own hands,

the pear that would have sated
the rapacious beast as you stood

in the dark kitchen gobbling
as my green-eyed cat looked on, the pear

that would have surrendered
to your teeth, flesh as firm and sweet

as del culo de Bettie—yes, ass-
hole, I know her name—is gone.

So, come to bed and pretend
you were here all along.