They Dreamed They Were Oysters
Sun, rotating turret, osculates sea. I breathe.
Sand takes on expanse. Gull, swooping hawk—I’m safe,
Cloistered in earth-moat; hell-trench, water-snakes, snapping
Turtles—I’m safe. You know me? Do you know my pearl?
Closing out lightning’s teeth, my shell a steeple.
Have you slept on my stained-glass tongue? Have I given
You everything: nutrients, time, a mother’s love,
A father’s support? Have I shared too much, suffered
To sheathe you? Adorn some minstrel’s daughter’s wrist, then,
Her heavenly neck a bone-net clogged with refuse.
Her wrist is a gate that will not open for you.
You will never enter the body, never sleep
On the tongue or snug inside bone. You dream of bowels?
No one will swallow you. No one will hold you. Joy,
Nobody waits in the dead of night to begin.