Poetry

The Oyster is the Key.

Salt so pure I can feel it in my bones, see it in the air
Reflective beauty is a canvas we are not meant to understand.
Can I be by the ocean one last time? I’d like that.
To see the tides washing crushed shells in an easy motion.
The blasting sound of the waves? Never-ending moon calls?
Starry nights and cool sand? Seaweed holding me to low tides?
Mermaids dancing in endless rotation, pearl dust on their scales?
“The oyster is the key.” he once exclaimed.

Blue flowers with ears of mice are now all I see.

Many years passed. Who was he again?
He never told me what door to unlock and where I could find it.
How can I get there? From the windows of this room
Cold and white, it seems impossible. There is only brick.
Perhaps he meant for me to know or said it once before
And like my daughter I lost it in the pages of musty books,
Bent pictures stored away in old shoe boxes, edges burnt.
Faces faded off and charred black. You would think I’d remember.

“The oyster is the key.” Yes. I know.
“The oyster is the key.” Yes, yes. I know.

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