The Lobster
It’s a postcard of a day in Kennebunkport.
Tourists stroll in sail boat t shirts; ducks bob
on sparkling waves as if enjoying themselves
too.
For dinner, my husband and I have ordered
a big ol lobstah that was caught in a trap
off the coast of Maine. I should be happy
but my heart is snagged on barbed wire
in the Arizona desert where officers wrest crying
children from their mothers arms, to be penned
like dogs without toys or beds; no hugging
allowed. “Policy” say these obedient citizens.
Juices run down our chins, integuments catch
between our teeth as we devour the orange
beast, leaving a pile of empty shells, our table
a tell to be studied by archeologists.
Once when I was very sick and couldn’t eat, I had
a nurse who said to me “I had a lobster last night
and felt bad when I thought of you.” As we drive
home, we listen to the radio and I cry.
**
Published in Ignatian Literary Magazine
It’s a postcard of a day in Kennebunkport.
Tourists stroll in sail boat t shirts; ducks bob
on sparkling waves as if enjoying themselves
too.
For dinner, my husband and I have ordered
a big ol lobstah that was caught in a trap
off the coast of Maine. I should be happy
but my heart is snagged on barbed wire
in the Arizona desert where officers wrest crying
children from their mothers arms, to be penned
like dogs without toys or beds; no hugging
allowed. “Policy” say these obedient citizens.
Juices run down our chins, integuments catch
between our teeth as we devour the orange
beast, leaving a pile of empty shells, our table
a tell to be studied by archeologists.
Once when I was very sick and couldn’t eat, I had
a nurse who said to me “I had a lobster last night
and felt bad when I thought of you.” As we drive
home, we listen to the radio and I cry.
**
Published in Ignatian Literary Magazine