Merrymakers in a Mussel Shell
After Pieter van der Heyden, after Hieronymus Bosch, after all
distant water extinguishes the town
where it was thinkable for a mussel,
an animal that otherwise can’t die,
to grow slow and large and enough
to be, for us, a private luxury ocean
liner. We’ve made it, lads! we all cry,
climbing into our shining blue boat,
we motherfuckers of pearl, mantled
so extravagantly we can’t see what it
is we’ve made. The musicians begin
warming up like a radiator warming
the house apart in the dark, a white
hot glockenspiel that only plays one
note regardless until we’re cooking
in our juices, all extremities poking
out. We have our children on board,
the owl has the conn, tiller of the dead
tree bearing both our obscure course
and ballast—one fish, a jug to catch
a gust and, low, on the end of a long
piece of string, a pot of meat boiling
over the face of the waters—and we
have all we need for a good time yet
2020-11-12 23:50:32
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