Heavy Syrup

The house is quiet enough to hear

the pilot light clicking in the stove.

I stood at the counter and pulled the tab

until the metal gave way with a wet pop.

The lid bent back, a jagged silver tongue

tasting the air of the kitchen.

I ate the pears straight from the tin,

slippery and cold and too sweet,

sliding down a throat that felt like it had

been scraped out with a wire brush.

I left the can in the sink

and didn't even rinse it.