Wild Hearts Know to Break is to Open...

That Which There Are No Words For

All afternoon on the oyster farm,

a great egret watched me work,

hoisting bags of oysters out of the shallow water

on to the dock to sort.

It was dark of the moon, tide lower

than I'd ever seen it, exposing rocks,

a pile of culch I'd dumped at the edge of the marsh,

mud speckled with dead slipper shells,

crabs that could be hibernating.

Oysters, sealed tight, holding their

mouthful of saltwater in deep cups

polished smooth inside by flesh

passed through my gloved fingers,

sorting for market.

I wasn't thinking about thresholds,

how often we cross without knowing,

doors opening and closing

without a creak or click

as the latch catches and we wonder

what side we are on now.

My body had taken over:

bend, hoist, dump, sort--

back into the old bag to grow

another winter underwater,

or into a wider mesh

strung on a line close to shore

for market.

I broke apart those that had fused,

pulled the beards off muscles

and tossed them overboard, rescued small crabs

who clung or froze,

imagining maybe then I couldn't see them.

Minnows thrashed in my palms

opening above the water, pure light
and muscle.

I watched their hearts explode

when they hit the water.

I wasn't thinking about thresholds,

I was pushing oyster bags on my hands and knees

through six inches of water because the tide was so low

I couldn't use the boat, sucked down

when I tried to stand,

forced to crawl,

cursing and laughing as the egret

who had not moved in hours

took a few elegant steps, rippling

the calm.

Sitting up,

kneeling in my waders,

waist-deep in mud,

I closed my eyes,

not because I knew what was coming,

but to see in the dark as well.

The white feathers of the egret so fine and smooth.

The marsh, in mid-December, golden.

It was the day before our darkness

made itself known,

that which we'd say about after,

there were no words for--

Crow call in the east answered by one at my back.

Prepare to be emptied.

Why is the death of innocence the only way

to know we are loved?

Jen Lighty, Dec. 16, 2012