Bartlett, Anjou, Bradford, Bosc,
all just fine as far as they go—
but nothing next to the pears
of my youth from Aunt Lila’s
gnarly old tree, their shapes
bulbous & homely, their thick skin
dark & mottled like a parchment 
treasure map, their juice earthy
& ancient with a tang of rust. 
I’d pull one down from a cloud
of wasps, gnaw it to the core
& pop even that in my mouth,
grind it with my teeth until
nothing was left but the seeds
I’d spit on the ground: my first brush
with a hunger beyond hunger,
a desire beyond desire. Then
I’d brave the yellowjackets again
& steal more pears, my sweet tooth
just as ravenous as theirs.