Pistachios

Take a simple thing like pistachios.
Think of them in their smooth brown cases
or cracked open to white meat shiny as a tooth.
Or think of them in ice cream, the green of mint
or spring or something more succulent,
an unnameable ecstasy. 
Get into the nuttiness of them, 
the unadorned goodness, then let the mind go
wherever it goes from there, to Romeo in the garden,
to the full brown nipples of Juliet.  Let love 
come into it
as the raison detre for all Being,
and because
someones always starting a war, let war come into it,
though you wish it wouldnt.    
Missiles over a ragged country, homes on fire.
And from there go down your own street
to guns, to murders, to our feeble attempts— 
pistols that can be fired only by owners—
as if that would be enough to stop the killing.
Oh, but Romeo 
in the garden, in blue, and the moon over.
Oh but Juliet on the balcony.  
Oh but the strong vine
that can hold a man climbing. 
And pistachio ice cream,
a green you could die for.  
And pistachios themselves,
the simple nourishment, 
the hard welcome apple,
the fallen fruit.

 

© Patricia Fargnoli