The children ignore you submissively
waiting in place in the sunny kitchen.
They skip past you, an ornament in a bowl.
The father, on the other hand, from the
instant he lays eyes on you, leers hungrily
at your buxom figure and blushing skin.
He would like to unpeel you with his mouth
beginning at the blossom end, nibbling
up around your core to the tapered stem
end where, with a lip smacking kiss, he’d
finish you off, leaving you sideways, exposed
seeds to toss with spent teabags and cracked
eggshells on his compost heap. The mother,
knowing well his desires, acts to protect
you for the children’s sake if not her own.
She secures you in the bottom of the
fridge, imagining how she will transform
you. With her favorite knife, she pares your
supple skin, slices you to pieces, brings
you to a boil, seals you tightly in a
sterilized jar, and stores you on a dark
pantry shelf. Some Sunday morning she will
set you on the table for the whole
family, exclaiming in prep school French,
Voila, confiture de poire—made over
and preserved to be had on her terms,
sweetened and spread on artisan bread.