Oysters are hard to crack, but once open, 
a pearl is free to roll where she may. 
In theory. 
Musty hands reach in the clear 
water and pick her up, rub her down, 
put her in their mouths to create some 
faux clean that fishes cannot comprehend. 
They take knives to her rounded bits and 
wedge her into a cage to lay upon others’ necks. 
She will never roll again. 

What’s worse is 
some wedge the oyster open before 
daughter is fully grown, when she is still 
moldable sand. Frustrated by what they find, 
they squish her 
between pudgy fingers and toss her into the sea 
to sink with no way to find Mother. Asphyxiating, 
under-grown burrows underground 
because maybe sister sand will give her breath 
where it cannot be traced among hydrogen atoms. 

All she ever wanted was to roll 
across the bottom of the ocean once 
her perfect skin was ready to protect her, 
when she would breathe just fine on her own 
adventure to the abyssal trenches 
undiscovered, undisturbed, untouched by man. 

She loves the darkness proposing 
safety and solitude, but as long as 
loneliness is a lie, it can never be her refuge. 
All she can do, can any of the little pearls do, 
is hold tight to Mother Oyster as long as possible 
and whisper, “Please Momma, 

“swim faster, swim farther, swim 
so holy hands cannot grab us 
to prove a purity they never had. 
Float wide in pelagic waves, 
find the jet stream 
to cast us far from swimming swine 
that cannot dive but so deep. 

“I want safety to be free and freedom to be safe. 
I want to be free of them — and of you, for with you, 
I will never get to see the kaleidoscopic stars 
cascading in broken mirrors across my body. 
You will never hurt me. That is something. 
It is not enough. But what else is there 
for a single grain of sand like me?”