Oysters

Kristin Laurel Oysters

Away from the riptides away from the erratic waves of the Atlantic we paddled our kayaks through the tall weeds of the estuary.

It was the nicest day of vacation, the only day without rain. Back at home, a blizzard warning.

Safe in the brackish water, we laughed as dolphins leapt nearby and our guide said, Notice how clear the water is where the oyster’s live. A single oyster can filter up to fifty gallons of water a day.

Back at home my sister’s son, Benny, went for a tractor ride his father needed to plow all of the snow.

For lunch we ordered a bucket of oysters. Some say oysters taste of the ocean, but I couldn’t stop thinking, they’re filter feeders, they’re full of toxins, I couldn’t swallow that colorless blood.

The oyster shells on our table were tough. It was hard to pry them open, but even oysters die when you separate them from the bottom shell and cut through the heart.

My mother waited to call; she wanted us to enjoy our day. She was relieved not to tell me, but told my lover instead,

Benny fell off the tractor crushed skull, blood all over

Earlier that day we were buoyant, detached, half-way listening as our guide said, Baby oysters need the shells of their ancestors to live while all around the shoreline, piles of oysters clung to each other

like those people we hold onto in the middle of the night,