Raking The Pears

At age twelve, I am the youngest

son, my three brothers grown and gone,

so I must rake the pears

which plummet from the drooping branches

of the ancient tree, three stories tall.

As the pears hit the ground

they splatter open,

the sweet pear juice

leaks out,

ferments in the nasty summer sun,

attracts yellow hornets,

bumble-bees, mud daubers,

who dive-bomb from all directions,

bury their heads in flesh,

float from pear to pear,

search for the perfect nectar,

suck the hot juice.

I am an intruder

at this feeding frenzy,

I sneak up with the rake,

begin with pears stuck in the ivy,

scrape them along the ground,

propel the bruised fruit

into a center pile.

The inebriated bees are slowest to react,

they can barely fly.

It's those new arrivals

who are daytime nightmares,

they defend their treasure with a vengeance,

attack the rake

swoop down up my legs and knees

as I bend to shovel the pears

into the metal garbage cans,

buzzing near my ears

their stingers stalking me

I drop the rake

wave my arms to protect my face

flee into the house,

feel my skin soaked with sweat

beneath my cap, gloves, long-sleeved shirt,

work boots, thick socks, long pants.

I cower behind the screen door,

wanting someone to chop down the pear tree,

someone who's older than twelve

to do what I must do.

go back outside

finish raking the pears.

--published in Toyon, Humboldt State University, 1993