A poem which reflects what I ate for lunch…


The best and sweetest meat inside the claw
Is shattered to, then pulled out with a fork,
And yet retains its pointed shape. It’s more
solid to chew, less stringy. We still talk

As if the armour were the beast; its flesh –
tender white succulent – its sweet green brains,
the fine almost invisibly pale mesh
of nerves – these shape the shell. The shell remains

when we are done, red, hard and smashed to shards.
The flesh devoured and tangy on our tongue
There are some parts of us that art discards
we built to hide in. Artists move among

us, pick us , bind our claws, then boil
and break us, and then dress our flesh with oil

About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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10 Responses to A poem which reflects what I ate for lunch…

  1. matociquala says:

    I like this a lot.

    I might suggest dropping the last two words, which are burying the near-rhyme currently. I think that would give it more kck.

  2. ffutures says:

    Couldn’t resist dropping that into the silly “who do I write like” site. Somewhat surprisingly:

    I write likeIan FlemingI Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

  3. cabarethaze says:

    Wow, I really like that. It sounds like it would be even better read out loud.

    …despite the fact I now am craving lobster 😉

  4. Very nice, and I’m also now suffering lobster cravings. (Specifically, the memory of an incredibly nice lobster I had at one of the Chinese restaurants – alas, I can’t recall now which one – on Gerrard St.)

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