The Glacier
Issue Four
Winter 2025

THE GOOD STUFF

I bought a bag of pistachio nuts 
as a death gift for myself. 
At the time, shelled pistachios were 
a whopping $17.99 for 
a 12-ounce bag. Now I love 
me some pistachio “meat,” 
but that price for not even a pound 
is insulting, and I decided 
I could live without them. 
Then I found myself in such 
a depression—not because 
of the price of nuts, but 
for other reasons. The depression 
deepened steadily for three days 
until I decided to do something, 
anything, so I got dressed and 
went grocery shopping. 

I remember how sluggish it felt 
walking those blocks to the market, 
as if on an incline. The cart I grabbed 
at the door was welcome company 
and soon, in the middle of an aisle 
at chest level, there they were.
My hand reached for them—like: 
If you’re going to die have some 
pistachio nuts why don’t you—
and tossed them into the cart, 
where they stared up at me 
like the bargain of the century. 
A Martin guitar in a pawn shop. 

If a nanogram of toxin can kill you, 
then something just as invisible, 
a sliver of a moment, undetectable 
to anyone else in a grocery aisle, 
can save you. But that was a while 
back, and now I’m wondering: 
what if those pistachios had been 
ten times the price—like 
two hundred bucks—would I 
have bought them, or would 
I have shopped for another 
death gift? Or none at all? 
OK, not a happy thought, 
though you may be wondering 
if I have continued to buy pistachios, 
like if I think I’m “worth it” 
on a regular basis, even though 
the price remains outrageous, 
something only rich people will pay 
and they’re mostly miserable. 

What if I tell you I’ve settled 
for cashews, which still cost plenty, 
though not as much if you get 
the raw broken ones—and 
they taste great in oatmeal, 
or just a handful shoveled 
into your mouth while standing 
empty-headed in the pantry. 
Broken cashews can save the day, 
and if they can’t there’s always 
pistachios. In fact, maybe it’s better 
to hold back on those, reserve them 
for special occasions, along with 
heavy cream, which I buy once in 
a blue moon and boy do I love 
heavy cream—the good stuff—
in my coffee. We’ll get through this, 
I say to myself as I watch it pour, 
velvety and thick, pure ivory 
disappearing like a diver 
beneath the dark surface,
before slowly changing it all.

KAREN

I have always been fond of the name Karen 
on account of my first girlfriend—platinum blonde, 
taller than me, flat-chested, a great dancer 
whose hands, when she held them out, trembled, 
though her voice never did, a steady alto 
free of affect, like a tomboy, though she wasn’t—
she was just honest, never snide or snobby. 

In fact, I’ve never met a snobby Karen. 
Her name, you could say, aged like fine wine, 
unlike Wayne, a name more like vinegar, 
beginning with Wayne on Scudder Place 
who was full of shit. The Kevins of my life (often 
befreckled) have all been decent, though you 
can keep the Steves, and holy shit don’t get me 
started on the Natalies. Katherines always took some 
getting used to, Reginas were worth the trouble 
and every Jane was a straight shooter. God knows 
I tried to avoid the Heathers—didn’t we all?

But coming back to Karen, I cannot say why 
the first one set the template, any more than 
I can say why people resemble their dogs. 
The Henry’s too, and the Helens, have totally rocked, 
which is more than I can say for the Randys. 
I don’t mean to be prejudiced, but you’d better 
keep an eye on that Randy, though never Karen, 
a name as clean and crisp as a bite into a carrot. 

Which is why I’m so confused by these Karens 
we keep hearing about doing stuff my Karens 
would never do. “Don’t be so sure,” says Hakeem, 
whose name on a resume spells his demise. 
“Oh her again?” says Tameka, and spits, 
as Luther and Alphonso look down and shake their heads. 
And I have to admit: Karen has become a problem, 
which has spread to Susan, and even to Becky 
with the good hair. It’s just so hard to believe 

my Karen with the shaky hands could be a Karen 
dropping a dime, or demanding to see the manager. 
Then again, I haven’t seen her in decades. (I heard 
she got married to a doctor on the east side 
and became a mom.) I only knew a girl 
who was kind to everyone in our all-white town, 
and now no one will give her name to a child. 
Lately I feel lucky to be a Diana, a royal name 
steeped in supremacy, due to Diana Ross
and the Supremes. Yet still, I ought to behave. 
We all should, and I guess that’s the point: 
whoever you are, behave yourself.

Diana Goetsch is the author of In America (Rattle, 2017), Nameless Boy (Orchises, 2015) and several other poetry collections, along with the acclaimed memoir This Body I Wore (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2022). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, The Gettysburg Review, The American Scholar, The Washington Post, Best American Poetry and the Pushcart Prize anthology. She’s received fellowships from the NEA, the New York Foundation for the Arts, Yaddo, and The New School, where she served as the Grace Paley Teaching Fellow. She resides in New York City and her website is www.dianagoetsch.com.

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