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Said Father
Peter, to acknowledge how He starved for humanity’s sake.
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The great scientists
of the day brought their heads together.
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Beards secreted to stick to rocks, to each other. Some stippled with limpets. Some chipped or hack-marked—features of accident, of life at the bottom, of lolling in the same waves that turn the jetties black angles into sand. Drab shells to which the elements of continents cohere. I scrub them in the sink until their nacre gleams. Scour the clenched hinges. Finger the symmetry. Then the shucking knife’s blunt blade jack-wedged in. Muscles stripped. Grit rinsed loose. They live shut up on what they cannot see. There’s something to that. A faith in what the tide brings in—sediment or silt. I tilt one to my mouth, un-bodying the meat with my lips. Turning it over with my tongue. Slick pale flesh slick on the half shell. Salty. Labial. Shells pitched to piles in bowls. Eating them this way. Raw. I half expect to die from some mistake. |