Sean Wang
Yard with Pears
Pears fell into dust in my grandfather’s yard,
green going yellow, bruises rising.
August bricked the air. The shotgun’s stock
kicked my shoulder; the welt kept time.
The dog met me with teeth, not lessons.
At dusk he returned, ears notched,
lay by the trunk; the bark ridged my palm.
Sap glued my fingers, the air tasted of metal.
Neighbors at the fence, waiting for a heel.
My father shook his head—small dog, won’t heel.
He slipped the collar, kept what shade kept him.
I once called him a tin toy and dropped it.
Better: tendon and tooth, one clouded eye,
a spine sprung like a crate slat, all heat.
He took air, not scraps. When pain told him stop,
he went still; I went still beside him.
The month the city culled its strays, yellow postings
stapled the poles. A truck idled by the ditch; the catcher
looped wire around necks, knocked on gates.
Pears kept thudding, soft clocks in dust.
By evening the catcher was done; the yard kept count.
Years later, south, I live clumsy,
days like a chipped kettle; nights
fruit drops through dark, rings score time.
Once I saw his look in my own.
I reached for the lowest rung, steady, held it till it ached.
Two pits in cut fruit, quiet; the tree lets go another pear.
I touch the raised mark on my shoulder. It keeps its cool.
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Image by Julia Filirovska from Pexels
Sean Wang is a poet and PhD student. His recent work appears or is forthcoming in Pictura Journal, Cerasus Magazine, Remington Review, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Eunoia Review, and others.
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