Fever

It comes fully formed, primal,
the smell of skinned pears.
It comes grease-limbed,
through the light-line around the door,
through the seam of the dress
the color of pears. It comes dinnerless
and able, loud in the hold of the throat.
The throat is the stem of the pear,
the sky in the absence of stars.
The throat is my father in his black suit,
come in from the cold. Oh bladeless heart,
who will brush away the snow?
Who will unglove his hands?