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Oyster Faith
Horseradish!!! I say to the guy,
fingers thick as boat rope,
hunched with the knife
like some medieval inquisitor.
Crazy as a cracker. Mug of draft.
Cup of cocktail sauce. I unhinged
those living stones myself: working
through college, metal-mesh gloved
like a knight, tight dagger
finding the gaps and sweet
spots; unloosing that oozy
pop. A tight-lipped, thick-ribbed
Cajun, every other week,
would order three dollar
dozens. Saintly patience:
a mullet-cut framed
his face, waiting at peak hour
for a bar stool by the bin.
“Give me big ones,” he’d grunt.
Then he’d smirk and slurp
down thirty six. I’d imagine
him unleashing his two straight
oil-rig weeks on some mistress,
or brothel. Well hell, aren't oysters
aphrodisiacs?
The shucker lights another
on my tray. Smaller ones,
sea salty, like lick-lipped
sex with a squeeze of lemon
tears. Sweat pearls
his dark brown brow. Prizing
the shells of their meat, one
by one, he tosses a
glance at the bottom of
the tip jar. Chump-change
lumped there shiny and lonesome.
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