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Homarus Americanus

By Zach Fishel

Thousands of eyes are thrashing like
hooked fish in the tanks,
searching for what predator is going to fight them next.
Banded and tied back,
relying on the oscillated exoskeleton,
because in here
there’s not a need for guns.
The knives do the damage,
and the mechanical claws that pull them from the water
into a metal tin that is rigged to
a poorly balanced scale is their final rest.
The prices are a knock out,
like the blustering air outside.
The clams are cracking from the frost and all of the
squid are slimed to each other in an orgy
of fantastical freshness.
I want to pop all of their tentacles into my mouth,
and relish in the briny thoughts of
an expensive meal.
The lobsters,
the prehistoric panzers of the bottom,
making Mariana’s trench look like a playground,
are the eternal survivors
cluster-fucked into a cramped bubbling glass
container.
No champagne here.
Someone is taking them home for the night,
and giving them the scream of a lifetime.

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