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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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