The oyster, the size of your average stone,
has a rougher look and less consistency of hue.
Dazzlingly white, its a world stubbornly sealed;
you can open it, however it must be held
in the fold of a napkin.
Use a knife, notched and not too honest,
and try it more than once.
Curious fingers will be cut, nails broken,
It’s not a dainty task. Blows that scar the outer shell
leave orbs of white, halos of some kind.
Once inside, there’s a world to eat and drink
beneath a firmament, so to speak, of mother of-pearl,
The upper heavens merge with skies below to form a single pool,
where a viscous greenish pillow ebbs and flows
decorated at the edge with blackish lace.
And every once in a very great while a dazzling expression arises
from its mother-of-pearl throat that makes a lovely reason
to adorn oneself.