Oysters

Months that end in ‘r’
bring the bounty of the Chesapeake
to my table. Iced in tin buckets

like buds of ocean rock
that sprout a kernel
of life within a fortress

of constriction,
their gray ugliness is enough
to make any predator

swim away in apathy.
But I am like the dog
who thinks of nothing but food

and love, whose big, sad eyes
watch for hours
as I pry with the knife

in this act of indulgence
to keep the taste of sea
in my mouth, the smell of cunt

scenting my lips and fingers
as playfully I tease
their living bodies inside me.

Just like my women,
I prefer them with a little lemon
and a lot of Tabasco

so that life and death
and rebirth are always on the tongue
flavoring my words.

Jim Doss