Pellicle
A poem about roasting chestnuts
Pellicle
pellicle — noun: a thin skin or film; a delicate membrane or layer.
Scoring chestnuts, you make an X
on the flat side of the shell
And you can be ok
with the way life goes
It takes practice, and the knife better be sharp
and you can cut into the meat just fine, don’t slip
—while time passes out of mind
Warm feet on the kitchen floors cold boards
dark rain out the back kitchen door
I wouldn’t say it makes any sense
I am tense, restless, hands
occupied with tasks
My feet wandering wet green winter grass
Take the tray from the oven, and
pour them into a bag
peeled curls, pellicles stuck fast
to the golden flesh
Unopened, dried out, not to be gotten
Not even with a knife
Only half edible, in the past, I’d give them to the pigs
The marrow scented spruce wood
The next years oak leaves
Living in a city
Pellicles, pericardial sheaths
Little, or no, belief,
and I reckon
Raven was a thief, because
he knew how to get things done
find joy amidst whats sad, and
how to praise those who bear our grief