That Mussels Again

The Mussels Again

John Ray Bantasan

Saline, the air ballooned Her lungs into a fistful Of breaths. Yet again, she wore On her hair last night’s soot—

A fine bamboo specimen Chopped like the nails of her foot. Abdomen Afire, she plunged headlong into estuarine bloom Whose currents held tight repose

Without ever being cut Away from its home. Red-eyed, She resurfaced like whitecaps. Hands scooped around glinting mire,

Her pulse mimicked that Of her son’s— empty-bellied, Brittle, and brined. And The son thought, ‘’the mussels again?’’

‘’Was there a time when this water With its barnacled womb Could give birth to a pork, to a chicken?’’ He would not have those tonight.

She would not have him tomorrow, For even thoughts, encapsulated, could not Escape the ears of a mother In sorrow, in deep labor for borrowed

House, borrowed boats, and borrowed notes. Heart afire, she plunged Headlong into estuarine gloom, Past the seas whose currents funneled down

Into sandy dawn—the late greeter of noon. She resurfaced, eye socket an oil well, Caesarian scar an aching wound. And the son Thought, ‘’I’d rather eat the mussels again.’’