Читать книгу Doubtful Harbor - Idris Anderson - Страница 12

Shucks

in memoriam, Alice Brice

In a bar in Boston, somewhere near the aquarium,

gentlemen in white coats shucked oysters. We sipped

cold brine, a taste not of heaven but of earth,

and the oyster, loosened, slipped from the clean inside

of the shell, no human hand or finger ever touching,

just the lip, then the tongue, then the teeth in that soft flesh,

the one chewy button of muscle. Alice ordered

Campari “with lots of lime.” “One for me too,” I said.

Among memories of reading Keats on the lawns

of the Yard that summer, I keep this one. The bitter red drink

she called for years later in Santa Fe. Just a weekend.

After persuading me to buy a red cape from a woman

in the market, we settled into a late lunch at the Pink Adobe,

sipping, shucking our stories. The last time I saw her.