This day twelve months ago we collected walnuts,

stuffed them into our pockets

and carried them home. At that time you were

in love with somebody else.

The walnut shells had ebony veins. We left them

on top of the fridge;

they were still there when you confessed.

You said you loved me,

said, I want to be with her.

I had no idea what to do with that.

After, when you were gone, 

I took a hammer and smashed those black husks open.

It was almost funny how little there was inside—

just negligible bits of crushed meat

and the sharp membrane in between.