How to Eat Lobster

Softer than college friends, my lobsterman
is solid as a callus, a desired scratch, sky-eyed
with an upright I don’t trust, sexy as sunlight
on a harbor seal. Tight bearded, blonde,

he takes me to a pound. At our table on Cape
Porpoise, steamers, bibs we don’t wear, hot sea water.
I confess, I’ve never ordered live ones.
Mom bought me rolls. There’s sweet meat

in the legs, he says. Start there, break them off,
bite down, inch it in your mouth. Now,
snap off the tail. We peel back green tomalley.
Dipped, his bearded lip meat, chewy.

He calls it eating watermelon. The sailor savors
my slice of pink – beach blankets, belly down,
the open bills of gulls. Flying with those high
grey birds, I wonder – If I give him tongue,

will I taste his heart? I flip it up, find slick force
in the boyish body of an older lover.
Bent in a shared breath, we smell the salt
of crashing. Now, split the claw, use the cracker,

open knuckles, shove fingers in the shell.
We rinse, drop sea flesh in cloudy water.
The nut pick slips and bloodies my thumb.
He reaches across the table, takes my hand

and drinks. Blood and butter, the taste of touch
with a tongue. Love, a shattered urchin smashed
on stone. That pile of shell. The hammer of his hips,
skinned outside a cabin overhanging cliffs.