Am I in Trouble?

She bends,
knobby knees splayed,
to pull Tinker Bell boots
from a locker
twice her size.
The school halls spread,
cavernous, and
pigtails with pink ties graze
soft young cheeks
that tilt up toward a teacher's voice.
“What are you doing
in here
by yourself?”
the old man asks,
and her hummingbird heart
flutters, Am I
in trouble?
“They said I
need my boots to
go out
on the playground.”
He shuffles up behind her,
beer gut pushing
into her back,
and his fat pale hands creep
over her shoulders,
down her flat chest and stop
to cradle her unripe privates.
His hot breath
moistens her ear
as he bends
to whisper
threatening gibberish.
She stands, blank-faced,
as he walks away,
and her hummingbird heart
trips

Shuck and Swallow

Men with tie-dyed sweat stains shove
barnacled shells across a grill
crusted black
with God-knows-what.
“The Virtue of Shellfishness,”
a banner reads.
Tyler and I navigate
streets sprinkled
with long-haired hobos
and glistening tourists
to the hiss of saltwater steam
and the incense of seaweed and weed.
We seek
the perfect oyster.

Butter-and-bacon,
blackberry sake,
Po Boys, skewers,
all of them fresh;
an oyster mosaic
streams through the square.
Tyler buys two big slimy
treats,
slathered with garlic and
garnished with gills.
The brown shell scrapes my upturned palm
but cradles its tenant in pearl.

I thumb the gob of flesh
into my throat,
butter and brine dribbling.
Seawater fills my mouth and I
gag, not daring to touch this
gritty nugget with my tongue.
Tyler laughs
and buys another.