11 pear haikus

i. linen leaves pray twice brown fruit remembers spring grass as the wind’s other seeds.

ii. a fruit bowl is tiring. I wish I were a black cat, feeling warm all of the time.

iii. pale blotted skin, like molehills in the grass digging for something real. iv. at least I’m unharmed. sticky chins, spitting apple seeds, I am never a thought.

v. maybe I am dead maybe the clouds are stray cats maybe I am a pear vi. a blade unravels sour skin, as a lens flare spirals up to the sun— as a glassblower finds an unseeable star. vii. pears die in a plastic bowl floury fingers scar dough as a tire deflates a freeway. viii. I decay into sticky palms like a pine bleeds into barkchips transplanting my wounds into doorhandles. ix. torsos contort across bickering tiles crinkling plastic is a black womb, where I’m spat out as a wrapper. x. I was a fragile novel ants digest the dictionary, but they’ll never truly know me. xi. rain falls and forgets meely flesh becomes the worm in love with the rotten things