Black Coffined Things
Little darlings whose French name is used
as a nickname for women's parts,
their black furred cats,
Hung on the rocks
or the wood poles
tiny coral dwellers camp on your back.
You come in sacks
I remember the tons I washed
pulling the thin fluffy algae fibre with a sharp knife,
throwing you in a sink
full of crystalline clear but tap water.
with dry white wine,
onions, garlic, shallots and thyme,
I use your smooth grey black coffin
to pick others like you
and prevent my fingers
from dipping in the juice.