OysterRachel deBaere
I discovered you, rolling on the shore.
Tossed there, by the storm, violent
waves had thrashed, wounded you,
pounded your cracked carcass onto the grainy soil,
left your fleshy softness beaten, stunned,
exposed.
I discovered you,
tangled in scraggly seawitch hair,
torn from your dark, damp home, lost.
And I tried to tell you
that your pale peach of skin,
pure layers of white, turned inside out,
would survive on this dirt
brown, jagged earth.
I tried to tell you, touched
by the shimmering light of the sun
after the storm, that you would be all right.
After all, formed over undulating years,
you would be your new self,
unhidden, iridescent.
I tried to tell you
that you would shine, immune to the black
grit that is this world.
We both knew I lied.
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