Clamming for Clams

Saturday, January 15, 2022



After ten years, recollection’s net
          needs mending. I tie-in nylon, 
                    replacing torn sections, but that is all I know
of how to slow forgetting. Recall the kelp 
          in clumps and strands
like God’s oleaginous green
          hair clogging our shower drain.

Slurp of sand gulping the shovel down— 
        four cuts framing little exhalations,
                  sparkling and vanishing. From each upheaval,
we plucked shut fortune cookies,
          plunked them in the bucket.
Intent on forms, I skewered contents.
          Innards gummed the blade.

My reckless digging didn’t lessen—
          all dull skill and skull muscle. 
                    Eagles swarmed the beach behind us,
garrulous as gulls, and grateful,
          I imagined, to make use
of our mess. Birds of prey
          playing the gleaners. Call them

what you will. I project. We made
          a minefield. I project, still.  We left 
                    for supper—clams with rosemary
and lemon. I am improficient       
          at repair. I am reaching
for a better way to praise
          the soft parts.

Saturday, January 15, 2022