I have never eaten a lobster.

I almost did once,
but was told my country tongue
would be unable to distinguish its
rich golden hay
from dust.

I’ve seen them in glare-lit tanks
banded together in their shell suits
like a train carriage of businessfolk
swaying to the metallic tide,
banging eyes
the colour of summer berries in labour
and claws like coastlines.

Is it true that some are blue?
What a rhapsody,
what a jazz. Rusted
Gershwins,
such trombones.
Scuttle and cacophony.

I have never eaten a lobster,
but as a child
I refused to face the beach barefoot
in fear of blood-orange
barbed wire.

They are a story to me.