Here the oysters bury
themselves in the lips
of the beach and you
have to see them crawl
up from the sand
to greet each wave,
a platoon of shells
rising toward vibration then
gone again, like the tiny hairs
of your forearm, stirred
by a lover’s soft touch.
Here is where
you should have been born:
lowlands, the kindest of terrains,
the ocean makes sense
in terms of allegory, each wave
a currency of reason, crest to
trough, cry to laughter:
a year is to a season what
father is to daughter. Think fisticuffs.
Think whatever
the water insists. Here is
a launchpad of will, a cradle
of what you didn’t know you’d missed.
___
Jeremy Griffin is the author of a collection of short fiction titled 'A Last Resort for Desperate People,' from SFA Press. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in such journals as the Greensboro Review and Mid-American Review and has been nominated multiple times for a Pushcart Prize.
