Christine Hemp

September 18, 2012


Just like that truck on the exit ramp, I see

the S-curve too late and my load inside begins

to shift: A slumber party of fresh pears falling

over themselves in the dark, their ambrosial scent

the first hint of ruin. It’s not the pedal

but momentum that pitches me up and over

the guardrail. The bay below rises like a Baptism.

All those pears in concert roll forward and the whole

rig aches between the fruit’s amber blushing

and the whitecaps chanting. Who’s to say

what timeless words are spoken in that instant

between “Yes!” and “Oh no”? Perched in such

a silent space an ocean opens up. I plunge

into the drink, pear juice dripping into salt.

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