By Nan Fry


you hang from your tree

like a teardrop grown solid,

like snow with a freckled skin.

When the handless maiden

came to you in moonlight, hungry,

she stretched up and took you

into her mouth.

Her father had sold her

to the devil and lopped off her hands,

but you bent to her, Pear,

and offered yourself, breast

and milk both, the earth

grown pendulous and sweet.

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