I blew that half shell. Took to the waiting shore
found new digs and never looked back. Feet
happily calloused and belly full. In this kitchen
I reign supreme. Stir my own pot. Garland
my tresses with wild rosebuds. My monarch
gown wings marigold as I glissade
across the maple floor to the awaiting catch.
I hold a fanned scallop between my thumb
and forefinger, slide the knife and twist. Prize
open the hinge. Free plump flesh from its frilly
skirt. Rinse, dry, salt. Sear the lot in cast iron.
Tang their sweetness with fresh orange. Pair
with earthy fennel. Create counterbalance.
Like dancing. Like mercy. Arms boughed in offering
for this body that spins me. Holds me. I linger
in betweenness: falling and stillness. The firm
and laze of muscle. My tongue curls sturdy seeds,
cradles supple bites. The ancient skillet seasons
flavors anew. I feast memory—ocean, sand, brine.
Instead of praying, I sauté. Leap.
The world, glorious and hungry, beneath my feet.