Blue Point, Skookum, Kumamoto—
Malpeque!
In rings of a dozen they arrive,
each shell enthroning a puddled king.
Sitting with us, pitching in,
the hoplite scarfs his Ostrean,
the lictor wolfs his Ostrea,
the Breton gargles his huitres.
All drowned with a chalky, cheerful Chablis.
The piles of shells go back to the dumpster:
buttonized for jewelry,
pulverized for roadbed by the ton.
And what of you, Filter Feeders?
How do you answer the reavers—
waterman, starfish, gull—
out of deep time?
With animal magnitude.
Let just one of you, turned female,
release 100 million eggs:
the tide dims, spat settle,
whole reefs rise from Pacific swells.
And why else would the murex
lift secretion to an art form,
if not for immortality?