pear harvest

the first time my eyes grew pears
i fed them to the dogs. didn't even
use a knife. they were slop-ripe
& dripping. the seeds came
right out. i had plucked them from
the inner corners where they grew.
hid my face all day, waiting for them
to be ready. then, winced as the stem
twisted off & my eyes welled with nectar. 
i have rehearsed how 
i will explain it if a lover ever asks about 
the pears. i will tell them that years ago
i fell asleep beneath my aunt's pear tree.
while i slept the sun rotted & shed seeds
that slipped between my eyelids.
this is not what happened. the truth is
i think they come from somewhere deeper.
maybe a family curse or a blessing. 
i have never eaten them myself. i've fed them
to neighbors & birds & people on the street.
i've even fed them to my lover without
him knowing they came from my face.
he asked, "do you want a bite." i said,
"i am full." my mouth watered.
i want to know what they would taste like
but i'm afraid they will greet me with
some kind of truth i am not interested in.
an image of my father in the yard
eating his own pears. then maybe feeding them
to the foxes who used to whistle in the dark. 
i am hoping that maybe after i die
that there will come one more
set of pears. one from each eye. i want them
to come after they bury me. then those
two pear trees can grow from the restless soil. 
people can gather. feast on the pears.
catch visions of me. nothing identifiable.
maybe just a glimpse of a deer skull
or a pigeon moon or my lover's face,
juice running down their chin.