Pears, 1994

Alison Watt 

Mechanical Soft

Henri Cole

Walking yesterday in the cold, bright air,

I encountered fifteen horses marching

in a phalanx down the avenue. Long before

they were visible, I heard their shoes striking

the pavement, as language is sometimes audible

before sense arrives. I loved how the wind played

with their long, brushed tails. Though in a faraway

place, I was not a stranger. Mother is dying,

you see, and proximity to this death makes me

nostalgic for the French language. I am not

a typical son, I suppose, valuing happiness,

even while spooning mechanically soft pears—

like light vanishing—into the body whose tissue

once dissolved to create breast milk for me.