Two pounds of mussels lugged back
in a bag tocking like castanets at the hip. If
they make you think
as they tumble steamer-ward,
of derivations from fruit — odd
conjugations of fruit — it’s of fruit’s shadow: shadow
of peach, of almond, of clamped,
unyielding anti-fig.
Even the juice smells of coastal rock and
wagging, limp but unmovable kelp; a grim
life clustered under Port Aux Basques fog.
Prying the lung-shaped shell
a fraction of the sea dribbles down
your hand, the heart is flung away
from dinner conversation to bloom
alone. Cracking
the sinewy joint, exposing
cooked flesh, now tinged
with ginger and twisted from the heat —
a delicacy, even
when fruit is in season. Grin.
Everything’s mother-of-pearl.