Apple-Pears
each ninth month of the year
the buds fallen & fruit forming
copper-gold jewels a child’s round cheeks
sah-lay, we call them, the sound of new seasons
two notes plucked from a song played on strings
they came to us: Chinese fruit to a Chinese family
from wartime sailboats, Captain Blueberry
guarding cuttings in his metal chest
my parents planted it like Jack’s magic seed
in time, the fruit came like doubloons
* * *
we explain they are apple-
pears, I explain them like I explain myself:
like one thing, like another
but neither, you must taste it to know it
as I leave for university
the sah-lay skins are yellow and green
mother & I find two ripe small imploded moons
we peel & cut the flesh honied & crisp
the translucence is still
on my tongue when I say goodbye:
mother’s efficient hug, brisk, her
small frame bony under my arms
father’s soft belly & tilted head
embrace, his eyes water
reaching high altitude, I recline
pocket of impossible life amidst thousands
of miles of empty air and light
dwarf nuggets hidden in
my body turn fibrous, dissolve.
by Andy Quan
from Slant
publisher: Nightwood Editions, Madeira Park, B.C., 2001