Out all of the
handful
of pistachios
that lay in the
empty crevices
of my palm, you
are the saltiest
and most bitter,
of which takes
the most effort
to crack open
that pale, thick
almost impenetrable
shell,
to obtain your
sweet nourishment.

where both left
and right
form the bowl,
appraising
pale cream or pink
seductive space
between,
a slight break in
a seamless join,
catch your teeth
on to break
resistance and
free the
shy but
meaty pearl,
exercise with
a muscular finesse,
salty taste,
kernel shape,
wanting more,
the
pistachio.

It is hard to get at the green kernel of anything.
Most truths do not lie open and ready, most
must be cracked with the teeth:
splintering shell and flaking husks
that lodge in the throat.
We know that the greasy
salted heart of the matter suffers too.
What is edible can be salvaged.
All else is waste.
(All day the secret sat in my mouth
heavy on my tongue, waiting to drop.)

In the dark, watching a glittering tower block
of sugar slowly fall into itself, collapsing
so deliciously into sublime black.
At the last, each crystal submits
to the swallowing tar, as they must,
as they were made to.

But all is not lost.
Shoulder to shoulder, the projection
flickering light and shadow onto our faces;
obscure features now
altered, now defined by the swinging loop
of the video.
(Who can find the pulse of a darkened room,
say for certain that this, yes
this was the exact place and
this was the exact moment-)
We emerge different people.

It is later.
I have dug to the bottom and eaten every one,
my pockets littered with
smooth hulls and grains, dust-
the day almost over, dusk
tucking away the grey skies
and all the city's lights dampened by
mist; it is too cold for this-

But words sometimes spill themselves:

Every year I take out my grief
and shake it,
try it on for size like a winter jacket.
It still fits and its pockets
are overflowing with shells.