Hog Island Oysters

By Devin Johnston b. 1970 Devin Johnston
Oysters adhere
to things, no eyes:

spat on the smooth
curve of a pier

they feel shadows   
and snap shut.

The sun wavers
while anchored below

each distills
Tomales Bay,

accreting waves
within its shell.

Voluptuous and cold,
Kumamoto trembles

on a thin fork,
liquefaction

of cloud. Rain
distorts glass,

our tavern submerged
all afternoon.

Source: Poetry (December 2007).

MORE FROM THIS ISSUE

This poem originally appeared in the December 2007 issue of Poetry magazine

December 2007
 Devin  Johnston

Biography

Born in Canton, New York, Devin Johnston grew up in Winston-Salem and received his PhD from the University of Chicago.

Johnston is the author of several collections of poetry, including Sources (2008), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, Aversions (2004) and Telepathy (2001). His prose writing includes the critical study Precipitations: Contemporary American Poetry as Occult Practice (2002) and Creaturely and . . .

Continue reading this biography

Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals

POET’S REGION U.S., Midwestern

Poetic Terms Metaphor

Report a problem with this poem


Your results will be limited to content that appeared in Poetry magazine.

Search Every Issue of Poetry

Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

This poem has learning resources.

This poem is good for children.

This poem has related video.

This poem has related audio.