Four writers for the price of one blog
The Queen’s Pear Tree
by William Crimson
The Queen decorated her pear tree. The Queen is mistress of the moon, severe , and governess of all women. Once a month the Queen decorates her pear tree with ripening women. The pear tree is beautiful. The bark is like silver. The leaves are gold. The grass underneath is soft and speckled with flowers. The flowers are white-with petals like the phases of the moon. A perfumed dew drips from the pears, watering the roots of the tree. But the pears aren’t what you think they are. We, girls and women, are the pears. When we are ripest, ready to be plucked, the Queen binds us to the limbs with a delicate vine. Our ankles are drawn to our thighs. Our arms are bound behind us, wrists to elbows. But always our thighs are open and receptive. The dew that spills from us is a heat that marbles our nipples and parts our lips. We hang, eyelids heavy, thighs damp, nipples ready for use. We wait. Sometimes a man doesn’t come. Then the Queen lovingly releases us. Our expectation flows from us like a wound that hasn’t been sealed. But sometimes a man comes. Your first touch seared me. Did you hear me—was it a cry?—a gasp?—a plea? Though you stood behind me, I knew it was you. Your fingers moved under my breasts. Your pelvis moved between my stretched thighs. I panted with fear and desire—I hung from the pear tree. You pierced me deeply and firmly. You pierced me easily. I was ripe, moist, defenseless. A woman in the tree turns her wrists, thrusts her nipples, and lifts her spine as if to escape but also to give and to receive. She is perplexed by the heat that pierces and seals her wound—fearing and desiring it. Pity the woman who hangs from the pear tree. I felt your flow. I burst like a split fruit. My juices received you and ran down both our thighs. I dangled. I receptively gripped you. You only had to hold yourself still, my lover. The Queen returned to me, kissed me as if with a passionate love. Come to me, my lover, and see how the belly of the pear becomes swollen and weighty on the limb. See what you’ve done to me. I grow ready.