Oysters on the Half-Shell

 

My brother and I with various relations set out

hand-in-hand down shadow-clasped lanes.

Clouds dancing with sunbeams, wind playing with my hair-

the day I first had oysters on the half-shell.

Whiffs of Eucalyptus, my mother’s smell to me

called us further into the valley,

till the great trunks, like sentries, as we passed bowed away

and we found ourselves on market street.

Tents, an encampment, lining the square-

their admirals busy selling their wares-

while civilians rushed, oblivious of war,

to buy peaches and strawberries and pears.

We wove our way, like cats in a kitchen,

through the masses and hubbub of happiness,

till one stand we came to, full of oysters on ice

and my uncle bought four to share.

They looked like old men (yes, they did), to me-

oiled and wrinkled with age.

But the murmurs of wonder, and licks of delight

caved my spirit, and I said, “I’ll try a bite.”

The sauce went on, the hand was held out,

and the oyster was put to my mouth.

SLURP! GULP! SQUEAL! SQUEAM!

Oh, horror! On the shell of an oyster!

The sauce was all gone, I’d have spit it out-

but ice bulk of the oyster filled my mouth.

I gagged and I gulped and I smiled through my tears,

my tongue massaging my teeth.

“Do you like it?” they asked. I don’t know what I said.

 I swallowed, murmuring something to pass time.

 And the next thing I knew, it was over and done

and we moved on under the smirking sunshine.