Once On A Low Tide

The rocks beneath our feet slip away, as if they were pulled out from under us,

               Careful, we use our tiptoes, dancing over creamy stones,

            As graceful as one can be in extra-tuffs,

       The kind of boots we would wear if we plucked thick fish from the nets,

                   Step,

                             One, two,

                                         Slide,

                                                 Splash,

                And we fall sometimes in tiny tide pools,

                          Barnacles kissing our palms with slender cuts,

                                 Perhaps, they think we're 'tasty'.

           But her, and I, are looking to the sides of shaken boulders,

                        Resting in the tidal zone, where fastened are baidarkas,

             Waiting to feel the edge of our butter knives,

     We slide the metal edges into their plump tongues, prying them away,

              It makes me feel bad, when my knife bends, but she tells not to worry,

         They are nothing special.

               Putting our leather, salty, prize in 'Ziploc' bags, before we cook them,

          We take one, cutting the sultry ring of fat from the shell,

               Sucking on it slowly, contemplating the catch,

                     I feel the ridged shells of one and wonder, but there is nothing,

            Only cold ocean spray as tide pulls its way, like it would grab us,

         Pull us out into the bay.

           We eat the native food, but I'm white as a sallow moon,

                  Compared to her sandalwood tan,

                       But I'll eat snails untreated from their shells,

                With a safety pin, dip them in dissolved butter,

                         Puncturing their rare belly, the way she does.