The oysters lie in my studio, waiting for stories.

I fill them up; fill them to brimming with questions; with searching; with encounter.

I talk to them. In whispers. I talk them. About them. Through them. With them.

I dream them.

And they dream me.

Piled in front of me like glistening sea Country

At times they overwhelm.

Overwhelm me with their volume, their abundance, their noise, their need.

I think through them. With them.

They form piles on the blankets.

I contemplate the inside for I am pearl. I am smooth. I am skin. Flesh.

I trace the outside with my fingers, my thumbs.

I line them up. Stack them.

I count them and find ways to connect them, to reconnect them to each other, to themselves and to me. I try to make them whole.

I wash them; over and over. I turn them. I turn.

I wash.

I am oyster. I am skin. I am shell; torn and wet.

My hands rub barnacles. I am clinging. Clinging on.

I know where oysters lie.

They lie inside and nourish me and I filter them.

They fill me with song.

Miss-heard.

Misunderstood.

Missed.

Oyster.

Oyster girl.

Oyster song.

Oyster skin.

I know where oysters lie.