Mussels in April¹

“All months with R,”² my father said
So
—come April, wearing slip-proof Keds
we’d leap the rocks,
start up the squawking gulls,5
crouch, wrench, twist the bearded blueblack treasures
streaked with silver.
Once home, we’d turn the pail, discard the open,
simmer in seaweed and their own salt tears
those sealed mysteries till they gapped10
and through the smallest slit, their golden eyes
would squint.
These family moments—cold outings, simmering pots,
scraped fingers, salty steam, the clickclack shells—
these rituals to my children I’ll pass on;15
and they’ll do likewise when I’m gone.