Alaskan Oysters

North, far north of here,
oysters break open
against rocks, split
fingers in quiet rage.
The eternal tick of
grow, surrender, die.
Is it better—to die,
I mean—where salt
seeps into your bones?
Along crash of coastline
and threat of harvest?

I dreamt the daughter
I don’t have was born
with frost on her skin,
my arms the net
dragging her from the blue.
Me, a thief
like my mother before.
And this daughter
the tiny, wild thing
begging me to drown
our glacial bodies and return
us both to the tide.