Clamshell

Black neoprene
Clear sea afternoon
Waves of cold stinging needles
Crash against fake seals
Armed like the devil
Gleaming steel tridents
Jabbing sand.

Living seashells
Pulled out of their homes
Squeezing shut and spitting water
Measured with iron gage
Dropped with its fellows
In a burlap sack
Of clam doom.

“This one’s too small,”
Thus spoke my father
Who pulls out a wicked knife
And bottle of hot sauce
A natural law
Eat or be eaten
Goodbye clam.