THE MADONNA WITH THE PEAR

—Albrecht Dürer, 1511

Those months were pools of thick mud I waded through.
I could’ve been sleeping, but I wasn’t. None of the relief
from leaving the dream. With one arm, I carried my daughter,
my legacy of how I eventually decided to love the world.
With the other, a ripe, yellow-green pear heavy for its size.
I was leaving, then, which explained the resistance. Leaning
against the knotted flesh of a leafless tree, I knew I was lucky,
even as the mud enveloped my feet, fed with icy water
from the nearby sea. It was winter, and I still had
sweetness. My daughter cooed to me in our language.
I took a large bite of the pear, and the juice dripped down
my chin. Mud rose to my ankles, then my shins. Believe it
or not, that was higher ground. There was nowhere else
to climb to. Lost in the wet and dark of December,
we had to wait there for the light.

–Emily Adams-Aucoin

Emily Adams-Aucoin is a writer whose poetry has been published in literary magazines such as Electric Literature’s “The Commuter,” Meridian, Identity Theory, Sixth Finch, North American Review, and Colorado Review. She’s a poetry editor for Kitchen Table Quarterly, and you can find her on social media @emilyapoetry.