Pistachio with the tiniest slit
If fireworks mid-eruption became plants
then my poems would be fireworks
which he would see if he ever read them but
he’s too busy just staying as he says
open to life. He’s bent on it
like while shelling pistachios he asks me
if I know the Chinese word for pistachio
开 心 果
then says kāi xīn guŏ.
Kāi means open. Xīn means heart.
He sets the pads of his fingers in the gap.
It snaps. Together it means open-hearted fruit.
He smiles, hands it to me
forgetting I don’t really like pistachios
I’m just trying to help. I just want him
to be happy and anyway I thought
that kāi xīn meant happy and he says yes
but there are many kinds of happy.
I toss it into the harvest bowl take another.
Nut goes put. Shells go clack.
I’m struggling. He takes it from me
opens with ease, reminds me he won’t be here
to open them for me if he goes back to Jakarta
and did I know there is a huge tree
in his backyard there that’s great for climbing?
Is it a pistachio tree I ask trying to wedge my nail
into the tiniest slit. I don’t know
he says. It hurts. The beds blanch under pressure.
I tell him he would know if he stayed
anywhere for more than a few years. He shrugs
and turns back to his nuts. Now I’ve fumbled it—
I could come visit. Do they have
Basking Sharks? I always wanted to know
how they swim with their mouths open so wide.
I don’t know he says without looking up
and suddenly I can’t I’m throwing it
into the clack bowl unopened the screen door is
the new spring so strong I can barely
slam. walking.
The only thing open about him is his calendar.
My calendar is rainforest Fourth of July
fronds and tendrils willows crossettes waterfalls
dragons’ eggs flying fish chrysanthemums
peonies opening into every empty cell
like this glorious Red Maple I find myself under—
does he even know the kind of taproot
the kind of fire it takes
to open a canopy like this? I’ve never seen him
plant a damn thing. The one succulent
on his toilet tank is dusty. And plastic.
And made in Jakarta. Him
and his green dry heart and his bowl of shells
and his installing the screen door tube-y thing
I bought 2 years ago but couldn’t figure out—
yes the screen door slammed but
that doesn’t mean anything.
I can be open too, it’s just
the spring I swear so strong
like his fingers. Anyway this maple is
at the end of some couple’s driveway
and they must be very kāi xīn because
the trees have friends—daffodils, a mailbox
with the door left open.
I could stand here for centuries.
Take root. Someone is walking toward me
and ugh they’re waving and I just … no. I turn
like this is my driveway turn like this
is my mailbox yes I’m just returning from
my mailbox with its mouth hanging open
past my daffodils, their lips a frilled Oh
and I can see him so clearly watching me
head for a house which is not my house
with his stupid kissable mouth hanging open
though not in judgment. That just isn’t his way.
He’s a Basking Shark.
He could take in the whole sea while swimming.
Eben E. B. Bein (he/they) is a biology-teacher-turned-climate-justice-educator at the nonprofit Our Climate. He was a 2022 Fellow for the Writing By Writers workshop and winner of the 2022 Writers Rising Up “Winter Variations” poetry contest. Their first chapbook Character Flaws (Fauxmoir lit, 2023) is forthcoming and they’ve published with the likes of Fugue Literary, New Ohio Review, and Columbia Review. They are currently completing their first full collection From the top of the sky about parent-child estrangement, healing, and love. He lives on Pawtucket land (Cambridge, MA) with his husband and can be found online at ebenbein.com.