Alexandria Hall

OYSTERS

It was snowing.               We ate oysters.

Dark in the afternoon.           No cars

on the road. I lived          alone. I lived

with my husband, who was meat and pulp

and dough. He smelled like a living

person. He tried                    to touch me.

I was sure     I had lost     something. Sluice.

No, slosh.     If only I could find it.

The house had mice.

I had a full,               unsaturated pain—my pest,

my tenant. He loved     me anyway

like a drawbridge.

He was always larger than me.

He said I didn’t see     things clearly. I know,

I said. He said,                    Let’s go

for a walk. I pulled               my coat tighter.

Slush. All gray and too much.

We ate oysters.                    It was snowing.

It wasn’t the thing to do. I lived

alone. I looked          away from my husband,

who pressed himself to me

like a cloth     to a wound. No, that was a line

by someone else. He sat there

beside me,     waiting. Slough.

ALEXANDRIA HALL is the author of Field Music (Ecco, 2020), selected by Rosanna Warren for the National Poetry Series. She holds an MFA from NYU and is a PhD candidate in Literature and Creative Writing at USC. A founding editor of Tele-, she lives in Los Angeles.