Mussels by Mary Oliver - The Atlantic

All Stories by Mary Oliver - The Atlantic

MUSSELS

By MARY OLIVER

In the riprap,

in the cool caves,

in the dim and salt-refreshed recesses, they cling

in dark clusters,

in barnacled fistfuls,

in the dampness that never leaves, in the deeps

of high tide, in the slow washing away or the water

in which they feed,

in which the blue shells open a little, and the orange bodies

make a sound, not loud,

not unmusical. as they take nourishment, as the ocean

enters their bodies. At low tide I am on the riprap, clattering

with boots and a pail. rock over rock; I choose

the crevice, I reach

forward into the dampness.

my hands reeling everywhere for the best, the biggest. Even before

I decide which to take,

which to twist from the wet rocks, which to devour,

they. who have no eyes to sec with, sec me, like a shadow,

bending forward. Together they make a sound,

not loud,

not unmusical. as they lean into the rocks. away

from my grasping fingers.