Oyster
By onemorething
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Our hearts are smaller
than the organs needed
for thought and digestion,
an oyster, too, is dominated
by a procession of water.
Drunk on brine, across gills,
the rhythm of cilia, flow, ripples
of frills, lost in its own private magic.
But prised, hinge broken,
valves parted, the germ
of possibility, yet its fat flesh
will wake the ocean
so much more than any pearl.
Oysters are spawned
in bursts of stardust,
a battle for convergence,
the dwindling chances
of survival, even beneath
a carapace of stone;
it is not erotic, this flavour
of love, or its absence,
it knots the words upon my tongue.
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Oyster_anatomy.jpg
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Hi Rachel,
Hi Rachel,
oysters are spawned
in bursts of stardust,
a battle for convergence,
the dwindling chances
of survival, even beneath
a carapace of stone;
it is not erotic, this flavour
of love, or its absence,
it knots the world upon my tongue.
These lines stood out for me, they suggested that there's more to the oyster than just a pearl, or food for the art of lovers.
That there needs to be thousands spawned in order to survive. It must be so demanding surviving in such treacherous conditions, but I like how you say they're spawned in burst of stardust, which says to me that they're life is based on pure fate.
As usual this is just my sense of your poem and maybe completely off track, but I did find it fascinating to read.
Jenny.
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"spawned in bursts of
"spawned in bursts of stardust" Wonderful stuff about a creature I know little about
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