peanuts
I.
the crunch of shell under foot. 
pressured between thumb & index finger,
dusty with salt. there was a steak house
up the street that let you toss the casings
on the floor as you ate, a small mound
collecting at the side of the table.
i had always wanted it to be more extreme,
a whole ball-pit of shells, a watering
hole of shells. the mouth mutter 
of the kitchen behind a swinging door,
licking salt off my fingers. i was reminded
of the squirrels we fed at the park,
my hand soft, small, & extended, waiting
for the creature to take my offering. 
their tiny human hands. i'd try to find 
ones without two in a shell, pop them 
like blueberries under foot.
II.
if i were to live as a peanut, i think
i would prefer the shell to myself, unless
of course, i could choose the person curled
up in the other lobe. i imagine us there,
reading each other poems, so close, separated
by a kink in the shell. outside the muffled
world would not know us. a dazed orange-ish sun
would mark day & night. we lose track of time.
we cannot stop tasting salt. reaching out
& never quite touching your skin, peering
at you & your pale smooth face. at times
i would wonder if you were really there at
all or if you were just an illusion born
from being enclosed for two long. they'd open
us of course, eventually. the snap of the roof,
followed by a deluge of light. oh this is where
we've lived & there you are, breathing salt like me.