Crab, Its shell, Dark grey-green, Reminds me of its native mangroves.

Male, All the big ones are male, The females are returned. To squirm, fertile in the tropical mud.

Claws, Tied by pink recycled plastic string, Strong, eager, my fingers, clever, pale in comparison.

Death, 30 pieces we paid, and more, Extra, for the pleasure of its execution.

Water, My friend, who lives in the desert, Suggested drowning. I was skeptical. Two hours later, so was the crab.

Cold, An hour in our ice-making Westinghouse, Its legs still gripped, the white vanilla of the freezers shelves.

Blade, I waited till its responses seemed dull, Our sentience as chilled As the ice in my rum as I honed the cleaver.

Marinade, Ginger, garlic, coriander, kaffir lime. A dash of mirin, For its Samurai soul.

Steel, I warm the wok, A few oriental beans, Black in their mourning clothes.

Stone, A hard flat coldness, Its legs, a feeble scratching, A last reminder of our childhood.

Strike !, I hope for a cold singularity, But its shell, curved, Denies my, and the cleavers, expedience.

Flame, Pink armor turns, like a mango in a tropical sunset. I drool.

Wave, Slow, the gestures an aloha, 8 spiny legs close, A ballet of sweet succulence.

Steam, The thick marinade meets the oil. I stir rapidly, to ensure a good funeral.

Rice, Soft, white, sweet. I imagine his sisters Crawling amongst the muddy stems.

Spoon. Silver clicks against the shattered claws I snap a leg, a flesh filled Pinkened straw.

Eat. I lose the words here.