Ode to the Lobster Shack

Take away the silver platter, perfectly cut
lobster tail splayed open with fresh herbs
and clean pink flesh of claws
emptied without the hassle.

Give me the humble shack on the Atlantic,
overturned lobster traps for seats,
picnic tables covered in baked-on butter
and shards of red shells.

Give me the seagulls crying,
the bubbling saltwater tanks,
earthy aroma of shellfish boiling
in the humid summer air.

Give me the steaming body,
the maze of meat to unearth
with its spiny edges and jagged joints
capable of leaving wounds.

Don’t give me a feast on a silver platter,
give me the paper tray piled high
with messy remains, soaked through
with sea, salt, and the sublime.