OYSTERS

Waves and wind. Sea lather

jiggling among rocks or flung

to clear the cliffs and catch

on cypress limbs. The mind 

swims slowly in its shell:

memories of last year

your chest sawn open,

the light pulled to a pinprick.

We are like oysters

the doctor said

our bodies layer a husk

around every point of irritation. 

You have worried the grains

to a sunken treasure of pink

pearls where the knife entered,

veins fished from your leg,

the ribcage wired shut. 

Remember now: summer 

butter lupine, now: the sun, 

coral nub plunging beneath fog. 

Veronica Kornberg's work has appeared or is forthcoming in New Millennium Writings, Redactions: Poetry and Poetics, Catamaran Literary Journal, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Negative Capability.