We zero in on a
refurbished oil rig.
We smell it is a
restaurant.
Mom says Yes
we used to come here
before you were born.
As the helicopter is landing
we see the floor covered
in crabshells.
Thousands of crabshells,
crabs stuffed with crabs.
The floor is deep
orange, mustard and intestines.
Piles of crabs come out
of the ocean—
even a tarantula has
formed on the back of a cook
like some kind of weird
flower.
A lobster the size of a
porpoise
gets shelled before my eyes. Quivers
like a squid as the
butter drips.
Crabs keep piling
up.
We stay til nightfall
when the warmth of the
water
is confused with the
warmth of the air.
A Bible reading. Then back
to the trailer
smell molding in
humanity.
Summer, 1960.
A white blouse smeared
with seasoning
draped my mother’s model
form
and dad was righteous
for a time.
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