She was supposed to come home
(with a giggle)
and a flush from pluff mud
piled high with various sorts of sunny stuff,
the makings of one’s own disposition.
(Juggling)
grocery sacks spilling with
odds and ends
of a life well-lived
and a half-dozen waxy lemons.
(Dangling)
upon her wrist so slight would ride
a plastic bag crowded with
clusters of ice and a quarter of
rough-hewn oysters.
We’d have beer with dinner. Maybe wine?
“What pairs better, my dear, with the
soft filtered tang of a well-aged brine?”
from the creeks,
not the factories, that share the same name,
the place where I last
saw
felt
touched and
breathed (in)
you.
Hinged bi-valves,
a cracked pearly heart,
both wed and un-
wed?
Never apart.
Attached (still) open
not ready to be,
storied in salt
yet entombed by the sea.