top of page


Updated: May 18, 2022

This is not the job she dreamt of:

boiling lobsters in pots

for the loud-mouthed elite -

the bigoted champagne

strawberry crowd.

She feels forlorn.

Their crustacean eyes,

barely clinging to life,

look to her

to be their saviour.

Where were their spider senses

when they needed them?

Overwhelmed by the pull

of salted mackerel

in traps of metal and netting:

a warning beat

only barely undulating

under hunger.

In the kitchen,

she hears them

whip their bodies wildly,

prehensile claws

scraping the side of the pot -

knowing water

but not like this.


bottom of page