THey said they liked the taste of lobster–
the exotic salt of sea and sand under the shell.
And we were on vacation at the beach, after
all. Playing daily in the waves–coming back to the smell
of boiling, curdling, briny water
whistling in the pot,
with the tops of claws swiveling and reaching out once it got hotter,
like the noontime asphalt in the lane on our bare feet. Too hot.
"Can't have shellfish at all," said Paul
in Greenpoint, this Christmas holiday break.
"No lobster? That's a shame," Dad replied, then remembered the way they'd crawl
on the wooden floorboards before he plucked them up to make
dinner for his extended family. Playing executioner
because we said we liked the taste of lobster.
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