The ABCs Of Oystering
Ah, oystered in the shallows of the
Intracoastal calm, steadied by a warm
breeze early morn, our flat tin-ship but four
arms length and only the earliest bird sang;
soon sun’s up in yellow-fire, shocks of acid
bite to me amidst smoky light burned away,
the bottom tin glided into a white morn and
no hint that hell’d be the trinket-motor; my
heart hemorrhaged, salt stung my gloved
hand, silver fish odor, everywhere sand; the
sun on my back, parted bed of oysters
packed to live to stand o’er, one foot in
water, one in the boat, you could stand this
way forever I think, as the sun-drum above
beats you know there’s no greater drink; “I
want you to stay, stay!” promised the land
when I’d tasted a raw oyster on a salt marsh
day, poled the small steamer in all its grace—
the oystered sand, oh, old man I was never
a fisherman, though stirred by what is this
place, o’ warmed calm and heat in my face;
seen then as now everywhere, I’d been
someplace: a raw oyster on a salt marsh day
and found in my heart prayed “Here again!”
(2013)
