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.

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