I.
The chemist selling his
Hyundai on eBay meets
us at a tiny condo, where a
wife fluent in Schubert
pours 11 pounds of
plump infant into my lap.
Documents signed, keys
exchanged, ignition revved –
why does she dash back to us
through the snow, cradling
a sphere the same shape
and size as her baby’s head
in her arm’s crook?
New Year.
Take it.
II.
At home, uncrinkled tissue
paper reveals a roundness
more perfect than a planet,
solid as living stone,
shaped like no fruit
I’d ever known.
III.
A Korean pear is
unexpected.
Pare its crisp parchment;
let luminous flesh crunch
between teeth more generously
than anything an unmothered
soul could dream of.
Suckle its milky nectar
let the world be made
new.
—
Catherine Wald is a poet, teacher and tour guide based in a Manhattan apartment the size of her laptop. Poems have appeared in American Journal of Nursing, Gravel, Minerva Rising, J Journal, The New York Times, and Snapdragon Journal, among others. She has published a chapbook, Distant, burned-out stars (Finishing Line) and a nonfiction book, The Resilient Writer (Persea Books).
