Pelican Tracks

Shucking

 Shucking My father lets down The little drawbridge of his pickup truck, A span of plywood planks on the back gate Held level by hook and chain, And dumps from the damp burlap A load of locked doors We’ve bought to break and enter, Taking our spade-shaped knives To the sharp and silted ridges of the oyster shells. Almost safe inside the heavy canvas gloves, Mule-brand, the fingers chewed through By snags of ragged metal his acetylene Cut back from the junked bodies of cars, We look for leeways in the trap, Any edge the blade can pry and widen, Leverage to spring the hinge. I set aside The hard ones for my father’s savvy hands. From the lusters of the bottom lid, We split the raw attachments And pour it all in a plastic pail— Brine and gill plates and mantle— My mother’s turn now to turn This plump meat seasoned by the sea Into soups and stews and po-boy loaves (Dredged in cornmeal, drowned in deep fat). It’s one more long Sunday when dinner waits For my brother to drive down, late, Through the pinesap airs of Hammond, And for my sister to bring herself, late, Across the white bridges, twin humps On the billowed back of Lake Pontchartrain.  And so my father and I stand opening The closed chambers, the cold valves, And from these cups of calcium Drink to each other a liquid Of salt and grit, the oysters Easing down like lumps in the throat. ...