Name : Forelle. Home : South
Africa. From one angle
the Bartlett bell, thought not
as supple, skin more like
an apple’s : green with a touch
of blush from base to stem-
tip, the whole big bulge
freckled in burnt umber.
Cinnamon and russet,
a Bosc pear cut into four
creates three-sided pieces :
two flat planes that converge
in a spinal line like the edge
of a prism while the third
surface slopes and bloats.
The whole shape a cello :
long neck and wide base
with two dark pits where
seeds wink like sound holes
air drying-out skin sheen
ivory stained sepia.
In the factory, do they pare
Forelle, Bosc, meditate
on shape, color, or are they
satisfied with oval Anjous,
paring like they pare apples?
Start at the top, slice
under, wind down, skin
slipped in one strip, snapped
back to slap a now hollow core.
Sliced in halves, quarters, de-
pitted inside fails to realize
outside shape, something new :
tongue sucks down slippery meat,
concentrated juices, thick syrup.
Guilty pleasure, $0.69 a can.