She asks how it is,
Admits it is her first time cooking lobster.
I disassemble limbs with a virgin's trepidation,
Piece by piece, removing claw-like defenses,
Eschewing animal force in favor of a simple twist of the wrist;
Snapping fears back, discarding the shell into the sickly ambrosial night,
Cracked bits stuck to the meat in one last stand
Of idealism morality nonsense easily picked away.
We are both pretentious American sluts,
Simply a matter of when we choose to admit this.
I submerse delicate flesh into sweaty butter,
Watch it glisten against the neurotic vanilla candle,
The wax evanescing like eighteen years
Of waiting for the perfect moment.
"It's delicious," I say.
I stare into the lobster's departed eyes,
Notice the jaded void of emotion
Of an object boiled alive to appease me.
"It's just something in your eyes," she says the next day.
"I knew you wouldn't hurt me."
The things you start to understand
With romance dripping down your mouth,
The softest appendages boiling in your stomach.