Hard-Shell Clams by Marie Ponsot

Hard-Shell Clams

When it was too late for him to provide

his own share in my happy childhood, my

father stopped clowning out stories & tried

for a whole day to see me—a good try

by both of us. Back we went to the seaside

of old summers, we two, we talked, we swam,

sleek with cocoa butter that caught the sand—

a glitter like chain mail guarding who I am

from his used blue gaze that stared to understand.

Closed, stuck closed, I watched us—far me far him—

go small, smaller, further, father, joy dim

in beach light. Our last chance, last perfect day.

We laughed. We ate four dozen hard-shell clams.

We swallowed what I would not let us say.