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