Off-Season Pears 

The summer of no
rain, no fruit
on the pear tree—
my hands knew I was leaving,
my feet knew I was leaving 
as I sorted old photos and clothes,
stacked cobalt plates.
Only my mind refused
to admit failure
after eight years.
My mother thought I was nuts, 
whispering, “He’s got so much money.
Can’t you love a rich man?”
But he still worked
in his dad’s scrapyard, swearing
he would be a star, playing
blues guitar riffs 
at home. My skin crawled 

every time his mother called him 
Baby Bird. I didn’t really know 
I’d go until I slept with his best friend,
hocked his prized guitar,
and packed my Joni Mitchell albums
in the Gremlin he bought for me.
I grabbed Grace, my old cat, 
and took off wailing 
from Denver to Omaha.
When I rolled down 
all the windows 
I screamed along with 
Janis; when I stopped 
for gas, my lips were cracked, 
skin parched, hair frizzed—
corn grew wild on the median,
its scent surrounded me, and somewhere
a whiff of off-season pears.   

ANGIE MINKIN

Angie Minkin is an award-winning San Francisco–based poet who stands on her head for inspiration. Her work has been published in Birdy, Loch Raven Review, The MacGuffin, Rattle, The Unbroken Journal, and several other periodicals. Her chapbook Balm for the Living was published in May of 2023. Learn more at angieminkin.com.