I’m eating almonds, alone, in a dimly lit room
Trying to summon the presence
of the surrealists.

Halfway through the second handful,
papery brown skins between my teeth,
I wonder if it’s okay that these are roasted.

Do the ghosts I’m attempting to call forth
Expect a certain purity
in their nut?
A rawness,
A blank almondy slate
That can then be
Spiced or sliced
Slivered thinly
Like an eyeball with a razor blade.
(Don’t fret, it’s only a calf’s eye,
much like the one that stared blandly from the table in science class,
well beyond the point of wondering why)

“I have it on good authority*,” I said to a friend one day,
“That surrealists love almonds.”

She, unlike the preserved ocular sphere on the table
was not beyond the point of wondering,

“It must be the shape.”
If one speaks with enough conviction,
anything will seem true for at least a moment.

“Whoever heard of something round having a point.
It seems just absurd enough to have a certain appeal for a surrealist.”

She nodded in agreement
and it became true.

*Sheri D Wilson