BABY CLAMS

      by Leslie Clark

In a synthesis of delicate pastels,
shells of lavender, peach, palest breath of blue
just beneath the surface of the rough, beige Jersey sand
dig themselves in endlessly
as the ocean, relentless, unearths their refuge.
As children, we delighted in their beauty,
played games with them,
plunged our small feet into the sucking sands,
felt them tickle as they tried to burrow 
their way through flesh,
trickled sea-jewels through our fingers
as we admired their fragile translucence.

Years later, I learned they’re
a whole different species — coquinas.
Then we believed that’s how all clams were as babies,
that they’d someday grow
into dull, beige-white shells
the roughened texture of concrete.
Become ponderous weights in the hand,
their digging feet obscene, fleshy tongues.

Then, before polluted beaches,
before disappointments,
day to day dullness,
fate’s stored tragedies,
we celebrated transitory
youth.