Pistachios

So solemn it seemed scant days ago–
lovers, tear-spent
talking out last syllables
of a life together, huddled there knees to chin
in moonlit midnight,
running tongues over hollow spaces,
tasting separation’s acid
speaking epitaphs.

Now sprawled unshaven in a bed too large for one
(television in the corner flickering blue),
I feast not on sorrow only
but with surprising equal relish
on a hoard of red pistachios beside me in a jar.

Their shells and skins accumulate
in the bedclothes, on the floor:
they seem an invitation to accept,
unseemly as it is,
the queerness of the freedom after death.