Scalloping

 

Scalloping

The moment I break the surface,

my breath escapes and I am

sure I will die

until

my legs prove

their ability to kick.

I thrash with violent motions,

and disrupt the previously calm waters.

I’m like a drunk

clamoring into a sleeping house.

Yet the unsuspecting water welcomes me

with open arms.

I accept the embrace.

My pale skin

glistens as a row of reflective scales

skitter past. Like the ancestors of New Guinea,

brought back from their sea-devoured bones,

I mystify and terrify the native Angelfish,

Parrotfish, Butterflyfish, all fish, a sub-

species. My eyes sift through the sandy

ocean bottom, and I find what I came for.

Like the Australian prospectors

who came for gold

and were mistaken for the native’s deceased

come back from the depths.

I take advantage of my powerful position

and scrape through all else

to get what I want.

Golden brown shells trustingly propped open,

their numerous blue eyes peeking out innocently,

close under my firm clutch, feebly resisting

against my palm.

Arms loaded with bounty,

I break the surface, and go about

finding a knife, while the whole lot flops

hopelessly against the unfamiliar deck floor.

A feast we have of them, or rather the tiny morsels,

beneath the shell. The guts, the eyes, we rip out.

But no, we mustn't throw the worthless bits back.

That would mean scallops filtering scallops.

No, that would be too reminiscent to cannibalism,

barbarous thing!

xo,

LA