I offer her a pear

from the fridge
- a cold and taut,
not just ready yet

to fizz on the tongue
piece of fruit.
In the blink

of a brown,

huichol eye

she offers me
Our Lady of Guadulape,

Cinco de Mayo,
fullness of an Azteca sun.
The swell of her breast,

a solar plexus of heat,
precision of her

coal black hair.
I turn and put

the pear back
in the fridge.