It requires a shift in perspective, an escape from linear
assumptions. Start from the top, not from the side. This is not a
still life. There is only sunshine, hunger, and the fruit. It is
not a woman; “she” does not have hips, nor waist; that is not a
rump you grip in your palm, but, rather, nothing less than the
widest of an infinite number of concentric circles. The stem, when
you twist it out—give it a good hard yank and it will come—is only
a stem. If a bit of flesh comes out with it, suck it off like a bad
metaphor. Then toss the stem away. The birds will eat it. Don’t
anthropomorphize the spackles as freckles, or it will be chilling
indeed when you bite off the “head.” You must do this without
hesitation. It is not a head. The skin is not skin when your teeth
cut through its wet paper. The flesh, white, cold, is not flesh.
This is not a religious allegory. Do not be afraid of the fibrous
stalks; they do not form a spine. They feel nothing for your
solipsism. They are a sogged remnant of the branch and hardly that,
for you can crunch right through them should you so desire. The
rest of it gives way in your mouth in a thoughtless instant.
By now, if you are lucky, the juice of the pear will be puddling in
your hand and streaming down your arm. Note I did not say “your
thigh.” Lick it up if you must, but be aware that it will taste
salty, and less like a pear for your arm. In approximately six
greedy bites the core will emerge, five sections of membrane
tougher than they appear; yet notice that they do appear. The black
seeds inside, always five, are beautiful, yet they are not the eye,
the key, the answer, or the Truth. This is not the unknowable
centre. It is the end of one meal, and the beginning of another.
