In the midst of
Broken words, busy schedules, and different interests,
Lobster was the one thing
That kept us all in the dinner table.
A whole lobster chopped and grilled
Into small, breakable pieces,
Red, hard, and slightly
Marinated with batter, green onions, and ginger.
Our family conversations
Are like the remnants of the lobster
After we’ve taken the good bits
Like finances and family history
The meat inside the claws
Is the reason we’re all at the table
In the first place, but
It’s tucked too deeply
Inside the lobster’s exterior,
It hurts too much to break through
So we stuff our faces with fried batter
And green onions surrounding it.
Conversations about school and work
Are like fried batter and green onions:
Something to fill our mouths
And let time pass,
Even though we crave
The meat of the conversation,
But it’ll cause us to break our exteriors.
And our throats to turn raw and red
Like our hands and the lobster
So we’ll bite into the ginger of silence
If it means us leaving the table faster.
