Breaking open
pistachios by the Friday fire,
pitching shells toward the pit.
I wonder whom the meat of casements
that arrive empty fed. Others
refuse to open, peeling back my thumb
nails; I surrender,
hurl them to the fire.
A moth drifts singeingly close,
riding the updraft like a bird of prey,
pretending grandeur.
All around the fire pit, pistachio
shells litter the scorched earth, fallen
short or saved by a small miracle:
the ricochet of bleached
bones off burnt wood.
