Oysters Cut But One Way Poem by James McLain

and I with my fetish for live oysters, woman.
) smell women (
and liken/love (sea-salty) for eating them
the heart if it part's is o.k.—
sock less and watching their toes
spread apart and hearing the cramp
while their (knuckles pop)
the salty spray (part's alot—
of posies and thyme.
It/is he is but a man does the woman is she
oysters wont cut but one way.
Unafraid she of the sea washing up on the
shore, 'Raw' unaduterated 'pure sexuality'.