Strewn before me, a Civil War of clams –
thousands dead and dying, blue and grey
in the November wind, their broken shells
failed white flags of surrender.
We brought this on ourselves, though
we might not say "here I lie, clam brother
raising arms against brother" because clams
only have feet, the moaning of their limped
tongues silenced by amputations of seagull
field doctors. Here, clam – bite this bullet
and wash your pain with whiskey.
Clam bellies swirl with Jack Daniels, jealous
As denial In the throat. Were we always
bivalves, but only know it now? We are two,
no longer halves of one? Ligaments torn,
our grit and pearls a house divided.
How will we love with two hearts, pray
with lungs that breathe such different air?
Our shells split wide like spatchcocked angel
wings, roasted without thanksgiving.
For Shay’s Word Garden
qbit 
How will we live indeed? Two hearts, so divided, so well represented by the scattered clam shells. I really like the lines about the limped tongues silenced by amputations. So well done.
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Thank you, much appreciated.
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I really love this one, from whimsical conception through the odyssey of dualism and violence. It both tickles the fancy and oppresses the spirit with its comparisons and analogies to the destruction around and within us and our histories. It’s a brilliant bunch of metaphors, and I especially like the image of the seagull amputees and the field anesthetic swirling like jealousy in the throat, bitter and useless…not to mention that brilliant final stanza. Just an excellent poem, qbit.
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Thank you so much. It was one of those poems where I had no idea where it was going, and seemed too ridiculous even for me. I was about to bin it, then… Oh. Ok. Yeah.
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Ay yi yi, “spatchcocked angel wings” is both brill and gruesome. I really love that! But…eek. But… wow!
One thing about clams, they have their dignity and die silently. In fact they do everything silently. Are they dying for a cause? Or, just because?
There is so much going on here and so much to love. Seagull surgeons evokes all sorts of notions, from white smocks to rather uncaring sharp beaks, and being “above it all”, the rotten egoists.
Shells break just like skulls, customs, flanks or governments. I’ll never think of a beach the same way again.
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Clams indeed have their dignity. Missed opportunity in the poem for their shells the white of Arlington graves. Are the gulls screeching taps?
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First of all your title is a powerful one Qbit! I love the deep message in your poem of decimated clams. Truly brilliant and the questions at the last lines really add to the heavy thoughts humanity should be actually asking in this life we are living now. I am so glad that you decided to not decimate your poem and share it my friend!
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Thank you Carrie!!!
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My take: Are we destined to be two / split in half .. can we reconcile the divide? Were we ever one? A great write qbit, I had to dig deep [always good for me.]
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