He’s a bold man that first ate an oyster- Jonathan Swift

“Fresh paint, “ he snapped, “is what we need,” the walls
an oyster white.   No cultured pearls inside
the varnished shell they shared, the ruffled trim
a drizzled gray.  His irritation vexed
her, rubbed like grains of sand.  She mouthed, “No way
we’re painting now.”  The words unclenched her teeth.
She sighed and turned.  The rays from slanted blinds
diffused oblique despair.  The saline taste
she sought was there, beyond the open door.
She packed and swam away. He painted walls.


About k2king

Francophile, writer, poet, and mother of Samoyeds
This entry was posted in My poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

15 Responses to Oysters

  1. Evelyn says:

    “The saline taste
    she sought was there, beyond the open door.”

  2. danroberson says:

    If she didn’t help paint, she won’t be happy with the color. Perhaps she could paint the trim. Even under water it sounds like real life.

  3. Lyn says:

    “Oblique despair”…I like the intelligence behind this…and swimming away!

  4. K. McGee says:

    Oh, this one is smart!

  5. poetrydiary says:

    So strong – I can feel where you are coming from here. Is there any hope in pearls being formed from rubbing grains of sand (at least I think this is how they’re made)?

  6. Jingle says:

    impressed by your talent here.

    superb write.

    visit me to claim awards in my post……Happy Potluck!

  7. wolfsrosebud says:

    Ahwww… that’s life. How silly we can be.

  8. Lu Ann says:

    Oh! I see… a great way to tell a story!
    I liked it 🙂

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