For robins and pears
By Laura Ross
What pears want is the hungry grip of weathered hands.
They have tolerated you for weeks
Wandering the orchard rows in dusky light
ignoring their ripened shine
I’ve watched you
my hips pressed against the kitchen sink
looking past the ant pacing the windowsill
imagining my face where your neck and shoulder meet.
That robin tags along
offering her best song row by row
as you study the grass under your work boots
or scan the empty August sky
I smooth my dress and step out on the porch
You reach for a limb heavy with pears of tarnished brass
then let it go
The robin gives up when the screen door slams.
As the moon rises I trace your steps
and fill my wagon with abandoned fruit.
Laura Ross rails against false dichotomies such as rationality versus spirituality, the sciences versus the humanities, the left brain versus the right brain, and nerdy versus sexy.
She drinks her coffee black, plays a mean game of pinball, and campaigns tirelessly for the resurgence of disco dancing. She lives in Portland.