the walls grew pears 

sugary & ripe, despite no one having planted.
a miracle. our wallpaper had been dead for years ever since
we forgot to sing to it through winter. when was the last time
you tried to keep something alive? i don't do a good job
with myself. sometimes when i forget to eat i make up for it
by swallowing a pebble. we put my brother in a terrarium 
when he was no longer capable of tilling the carpets.
fed him fish food from a tiny spoon. i would make
a pretty good lizard. press your face to the glass
& inspect my scales. who is measuring the passage of skin?
around the dinner table we discussed what kind of farm
we could have next year. i wanted to grow puppies
& they all want to grow hemp. we planted black beans
& hoped for the best. nothing sprouted. july ate june.
august ate both october & november.
we forgot who was supposed to be a son 
& who a father & who a grandfather & who a girl.
still nothing grew. we roasted fragments of asphalt
& repeated the word "farm" over & over until
it was strange & viscous. the truth is i always wanted
to have an orchard. i prayed for it once or twice
so maybe this was an answer from god. only, i'm not sure
if i believe in answers. all fruit is divine though.
i plucked the pears before they syruped & mashed
on the living room floor. cradled them like
puppies. little creatures waiting for a bite.
waited for a new sun to be born so we could
talk again of planting. i have swallowed 
so many seeds i rightfully fear a tree
tearing me in two. when it rains, i wrap myself
in a plastic cover & stay out of sight. 
the pears were sweet & needed to be eaten
right away. no time to forget. no time to question.
feast on top of feast. i even gave a piece
to my terrarium brother. his amphibian face
blank & dazed as he chewed the honey-sweet fruit.
i wished we could trade places. i wanted to let
my brain turn to sand. i am afraid of roots
in the walls & roots in my wrists.
cut the moon out to use as fertilizer.
who should be the mother this time around?
i ate so many pears my skin turned green
& slipped off. my own black seeds in the soup.
the others found them & pocketed my futures.
dried them on windowsills.
& still, now, they wait for the right
deluge to slip them between the floor boards.
i can't wait to be an orchard.

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