The shells of pistachios, for those too young to remember, were often died a bright red, the indelible evidence of pistachio-lovers left stained upon their fingers.
Beside my side, in the light,
on the bed, on my right,
lie cracked halved remnants
of a ferocious fight:
tooth and nail versus the
tough-shelled might of pistachios.
How futile now my
attempts do seem.
Half-cracked nuts in
half-won triumph lie
and I in desperation glean
the fruits of my despair.
Begone, thou livid stain
of pleasure past!
Thou staid red mem’ry
of lengthy last!
For weeks to come
I’m bound to search
this earth for some
unknown way to cleanse
my hands of their
stubborn, scarlet curse!
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