Duties

That time she told me to put the lobster

in the pot because she couldn’t stand to kill it herself,

my face composed

so as not to reflect my sins,

and the water boiled imperiously

waiting for the lobster, which was brown and green,

surprisingly so, but not grotesque,

not something that shouldn’t be eaten

so I understood why it needed to be placed

in the deep gleaming pot, still tied up with strings

around the claws, as it was in the shop

so that it would remain whole and unmarred

throughout the process of heating

the water and the lobster together—

the more the lobster boils, the less it seems plausible

that the pot could encompass

everything that needs to fit inside, even though it is just water

and lobster, nothing more necessary

to ensure the whole thing turns out properly.

It’s as if we didn’t know what was under the lid,

as if we threw in cardamom and sea-salt, balsamic vinegar

tainted with oils, raw sugar.

But we couldn’t have; there are directions to the making.

Love your mother as yourself, harm no one, pay no attention to the faces

made in the mirrored wall of the pot, the mouth rounded

to practice the look of screaming, then smoothed.