"Found Poem"

I literally found this poem as I was going through my attendance roster from last year (preparing, finally to enter my Fall students, assuming no one else drops).  I'm going to take it to my writing group next Tuesday and see what folks think.  Feel free to share your thoughts and comments, too.

This is the pasture, next to the barn where the poem takes place

Oysters

By Angie Mellor

Eating oysters with good country

people, drinking beer in the barn

that horse and hay

smell in the air between

our bodies heated

with blood and hot sauce

on saltines and bone

hard oyster shells tossed

in a bucket.  There is a proper

East Carolinian way to do this:

red plastic bowls and 

plastic forks, a feed bag

full of oysters spread on

a grill, wrapped in wet

towels, then seduced open

by gloved hands.  Poured

like hot snot into the bowl,

topped with horseradish and Texas Pete's tobasco.

The first one gulped without 

a chew like a dare to run 

naked around the block, each 

step a thrill, then shudder.  

There is a first time for oysters

raw, slurped from the shells,

sucked to the red marrow,

a chill sliding down and discarded

just as quickly as virginity lost,

that shell left more empty.

There is a time to admit

what you cannot do.

Even months later,

your dog will dig up

the bits of shells,

their toughest facade 

broken down by tires

into the gravel of your driveway.