Vessels

Paisley Rekdal

Shouldn't it ache, this slit（裂缝） 

 into the sweet

 and salt mix of  waters 

comprising the mussel（蚌）, 

 its labial meats 

 winged open: yellow- 

fleshed, black and gray

 around the tough

 adductor（内收肌）? It hurts

to imagine it, regardless

 of the harvester's

 denials, swiveling（旋转的） 

his knife to make 

 the incision: one

 dull cyst nicked

from the oyster's 

 mantle -- its thread of red 

 gland no bigger

than a seed 

 of  trout roe -- pressed 

 inside the tendered

flesh. Both hosts eased

 open with a knife 

 (as if anything

could be said to be eased

 with a knife): 

 so that one pearl

after another can be 

 harvested, polished, 

 added to others 

until a single rope is strung 

 on silk. Linked 

 by what you think

is pain. Nothing 

 could be so roughly 

 handled and yet feel 

so little, your pity 

 turned into part of this 

 production: you 

with your small,

 four-chambered heart, 

 shyness, hungers, envy: what

could be so precious 

 you'd cleave 

 another to keep it

close? Imagine 

 the weeks it takes to wind 

 nacre over the red

seed placed at the other 

 heart's mantle. 

 The mussel 

become what no one 

 wants to:

 vessel, caisson, wounded 

into making us 

 the thing we want

 to call beautiful.