Cancer
When I called, she told me
She was saving the oysters
At low tide, throwing them back
Into the Sea, banking on
Good Karma.
Each oyster, silver and grey,
A sheen of ocean sweat lacing
Its shell. She throws them all back,
Not leaving a single one,
If someone is dying, she says, it’s not going to be them.
I want to tell her about the things
I’m doing and accomplishing,
But hearing the roar of each wave and
The laughter of my sisters’, I realized,
Nothing matters but the oysters.
When I called, she told me
She was saving the oysters
At low tide, throwing them back
Into the Sea, banking on
Good Karma.
Each oyster, silver and grey,
A sheen of ocean sweat lacing
Its shell. She throws them all back,
Not leaving a single one,
If someone is dying, she says, it’s not going to be them.
I want to tell her about the things
I’m doing and accomplishing,
But hearing the roar of each wave and
The laughter of my sisters’, I realized,
Nothing matters but the oysters.
And just in case:
Copyright, Laura Masters October 2008
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