Crab

Burnt in the steam of crab,
there was no in your eyes.
There was no on your fingers,
peeling the apron,
splitting the shell,
scraping the devil,
digging the claw for meat.

I found someone came like a mallet,
but it was you walked away,
bored in youth,
bored in the shell of love,
met on a crab lunch hesitant,
in an inland cafe,
where they only steam female
not thrown back to sea for spawning.

But what else could I say?
If honest is the plate of love,
then I served you well.
But what came hot,
like a platter of crab,
was quickly indulged,
and all that remains is the no:
the no in your eyes,
the no on your fingers,
the no on your lips.
the no that always lingers.

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