Caving In, White, Salted Flesh
he makes is the one he makes
with his fingers, snapping off
a pincer, boiled-red, shelled husk
caving in, white, salted flesh
rising like clouds, fraying.
My mother watches all this
like a rapt audience. If she could,
she would rise up in a passion
to applaud, convinced she is
not the metaphor in the bowl,
pink leg dangling, suspended
over the rim, chest in pieces,
spooned and well-dug, emptied.from The End Of His Orbit
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