D'Anjou

I'm in bed with a pear,
freckled, green, and too cold for my teeth,
fragrant, sweet, and bottom heavy
just like me.

It sits like a gift,
contours concaving egg-crate foam.
Little pear holds its chill.
Sexy fruit blushes;

when it's warm I'll eat it,
regretting the canine tears into its skin,
juice-drip down my chin.
Little pear exists to be consumed.