The only sound br He makes is the one he makes br With his fingers, snapping off br A pincer, boiled-red, shelled husk br Caving in, white, salted flesh br Rising like clouds, fraying. br My mother watches all this br Like a rapt audience. If she could, br She would rise up in a passion br To applaud, convinced she is br Not the metaphor in the bowl, br Pink leg dangling, suspended br Over the rim, chest in pieces, br Spooned and well-dug, emptied.