Lobsters
We wander aisles, the kid and me,
past pans of ice
that chill the flesh of fillets,
arriving at the lobster tank
where a behemoth with claws
the size of children’s mittens
plods across the floor
in segmented centurion’s armour,
beady eyes the black opacity
of glass domes that shield security
cameras in department stores,
antennae set to channel
waves from distant radios
or call in airstrikes
against a bunkered foe.
The small ones form
a pep squad pyramid,
weigh in against oblivion.
My daughter, leaning in,
makes a fish face
at the lot of them.
***
Reprinted from Gift Horse, Véhicule Press 2011.
Mark Callanan - Poetry 