The Sea Urchin

He reaches,

with hands heavy as cast iron,

and lifts the empty sea urchin

from my cobalt blue jar.

Its absence is noticeable

among the remaining shells.



Once,

in the sub tidal zones

of Maine’s coastal waters,

it clung with stubborn tube feet

to rocky ledges,

inching its way past

sea cucumbers

and waving anemones.



Strongylocentrotus droebachiensis


Harvested by divers

line-tended to surface skiffs,

its gonads are processed

into shio, mushi, yaki or reito uni

for picky Japanese customers.



Now,

empty of roe,

its protective spikes stripped away

by the rhythm of the sea,

it bears the weight of his thumb

as, idly, he rubs its fragile surface

back and forth.



I watch,

nervous,

eyeing the sphere

and its radiating rows

of sun-bleached beads,

wondering which of the five

perfectly

symmetrical

sections

will be the first to crack.



When I let go my breath

And ask for the urchin,

he nods—

nonchalantly,

and hands it over.