【by Maggie Ondrey】

How it feels to eat a lobster— from a lobster
Butter me up, take a knife down my center. Divide me into a fraction of good
meat, bad meat. Before you do all of this, tie my claws closed. Leave me defenseless.
Bathe me in water that feels so hot you can laugh with a frown as you dip me in. Bury me
in lemon and capers, pair me with that two pronged fork you wield. Red, that’s how you
prefer me, cooked to your liking and in no control of what you do to me. Separate my
body with what you choose to consume, leave behind what does not please you.
Leave my shell, leave everything but the inside of me.
Put me on display,
mention that I am from Maine.

Why lobsters love vegetarians— from a lobster
My new lover is a vegetarian. Picks me up from the tank, saves me from tin boiling pans and men who butter me with their hands. I am a free lobster, left to never be red but to bury into grained shimmery sand. Where my lover will find me, touch my shell so gently to whisper that the proper way to eat a lobster is to not eat it at all,
to just lie in the wet, heavy, tide-touched sand. Place saltlined lipped kisses upon my head, hard to soft. A lobster as callous as me thought all hope was lost. But my vegetarian makes it easy, never dipping me in pools of butter or water with the intention of eating me.
Good news for lobsters, there are such things as vegetarians.