With that cliche’ I smell

broth enriched by silent bodies

of cherrystones locked in a

net bag in a metal bowl.

It’s a happy memory for me,

but not as tasty for the clams.

 

Then, the clams drag me into

the ocean, where they can breathe,

but I would drown, my lungs

filling with brine that I’d gulped

happily as a broth poured from

the bottom of the steamer 

into a heavy mug. 

 

Is this where the cliche’ makers

would send me? 

 

As  usual, if you have suggestions of how to improve this poem, please jump in. I’m open to your feedback.

This poem was inspired by PoetryThursday’s prompt about cliche’s and proverbs. I started working with "the nail that sticks up gets hammered down," a Japanese proverb about conformity. Then I thought "Iggy is as happy as a clam when he can hammer nails into the wall." That got me onto clams. 

 

P.S. After I originally posted this poem, I condensed the part that now refers to broth.