Massachusetts, the oyster has sand in her suit. We are born into this sweetness and liquor and grit. We watch the cars pass from the atrium of the Anesthesia Museum. We will buy a mask and dropper from the gift shop, a plush toy syringe. They come only in pink. Shucked, we're neither sleeping nor awake, Mars nor penis, crustacean nor skirt steak, vulva nor Venus, but the intestinal tract of the Cassiopeia jellyfish, spinning gold from orchids in the Whaler's Pulpit of New Bedford. Call me, Lovey, as we numb-up, as the fish speak in physics we mishear as blip-blip . When we thaw, we will be angry in foreign languages. Little coastal ones. We will pray the tuna's on sale.