Oyster

By Sydney Lee

My thumb like an oyster—

flaps of pale skin swollen, turgid,

outgrows its ingrown shell.

Disruptive fisherman, you,

too old a man at sea, find

luck, glistening pure white

amongst ruins:

cheap wet flesh

unsold fish skin, aging

She shudders,

doesn’t swallow sweat

trickling down walls—

flies against window screens:

predators of a swelling summers eve.