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.