Old Cheese and Pears

I slice the crisp pear thinly,
the way you like, and finger-place it
into your mouth as you lay limp as a child in my lap.

The hard cheese crumbles at the warmed knife,
so I press crumbs between thumb and first-finger,
mold it and let you suck it out from my pursed grip
like a bird, feeding.

It is summertime and the cheese flattens in the heat,
the pear sweats its sweet juice and the tickly
grasses waggle dry-yellow tongues at the eucalyptus
that shades us here, where the bees hive.

They are busy ignoring us, stretched like burnt logs
on the sloping ground, and they fly neat lines
like a squadron across the heavy air.

We talk low, about lives and the making of cheese,
about the ins and outs of bees in the crook of the tree
above our heads, how they must detest our slow drone.

We are pressed into earth, the hard, dull throb of its tectonics.
It is all ants down here, haphazard and messy
through the fallen leaves.

You say the word peace, letting it slip from your tongue
like the falling from a tap, and I think I know what you mean
but it seems unnecessary to agree.

Tomorrow will be Christmas and you will return to brick and tile,
to hungry mouths in the living room and the dull
roasting of a wife, fingers reeking of garlic and rosemary.

Today, the pear’s womanly bowl comforts my palm,
and I trace the careful surgery of removed slices,
cleaving the vivid, white flesh within,
the dark seeds curled like unborn children
in a womb.