ISSUE 9

Paula Finn

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Mussel Harvest

 

If it were a movie, I’d say

the cinematography drew me in.

 

The coastal backdrops. Marshes greening a bay.

Rock cliffs descending into waves.

 

Close-up on a boulder draped with mussels,

barnacled, blue-black, four children

 

bobbing in a skiff, piling dinner

into their hammocked T-shirts.

 

I must admit, I prized

the lead actor, too, the glee

 

with which he rallies his kids

to their mussel harvest.

 

But then a jump cut

to the scene in which he hisses,

 

I’ll kill you if you tell anyone,

in his daughter’s ear one night.

 

Over breakfast, a command performance,

his slumped posture, his pleated face

 

a stage where sadness bows to rage

as he recounts: his middle school teacher-priest,

 

the ruler used to whack his hands, his knuckles,

bloody atop his desk, his classmates made to watch.

 

In another scene, he turns

from scrambling eggs, fork in one hand,

 

patting his chest with the other

to announce how well he’s slept,

 

guffawing, a near-death experience!

his kids cracking up.

 

At last, the coda in which he,

divorced, riddled with cancer,                                                                                                         

lies in the center of his living room

between the metal bars of a hospital bed.

 

That same daughter, not killed,

smooths a morphine patch on his upper arm.

 

As she does, his face lights up to say,

Come with me uptown to The Met!

 

And in the palm of her hand

he stuffs his imaginary token.

 

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Mussel Harvest

My father was the starring actor
in a movie I didn’t choose. But
I came to prize the cinematography,
backdrop of a jagged coastline,
close-up: a rock draped with mussels,
barnacled, blue-black, four children
bobbing in a skiff, piling dinner
into their hammocked T-shirts.
I must admit, I came to prize the lead actor, too,
the glee with which he rallies his kids
to their mussel harvest.

Jump cut to the scene in which his character
hisses, I’ll kill you if you tell anyone,
in his daughter’s ear one night.

Then over breakfast, a command performance,
his slumped posture, his pleated face, a stage
where sadness bows to rage
while his soliloquy pours out:
his middle school teacher-priest, the ruler
used to whack his hands, his knuckles,
bloody atop his desk,
his classmates made to watch.

Still another morning, he turns
from scrambling eggs, fork in one hand,
the other hand patting his chest
to announce he’s slept well, guffawing,
Ahh! A near-death experience!,
his kids cracking up.

Finally, the coda in which he,
divorced, riddled with cancer,
lies in the center of his living room
between the metal bars of a hospital bed.
That same daughter, not killed,
smooths a fresh morphine patch
on his left deltoid to ease the pain.
As she does, his face lights up to say,
Come with me uptown to The Met!
And in the palm of her hand
he stuffs his imaginary token.

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