Lobster Season Closure

Lobster Mat by Art Marée Haute

I am crustaceal, half-molted.
There’s space enough
between my body and shell
that a fisher would find
my defenses shot.
Ecdysis, biannual self.
I am a commodity, export,
no longer poor-man’s food
prepared by wives
in drafty kitchens.
The engines are off,
hands still.
There will be time again
to be pulled upward,
lifted from saltwater.
For now, the pull is within
and away from myself.
Without rigidity, rocks appeal.
My octet steps take me there.

I am economical, shellfish-savvy.
At the pound, I ensure
there is never a paucity.
In tanks like swimming pools,
lobsters lay dormant,
unfed and ready
for take-off to China.
400 000 suspended,
banded by colour
and crated by size.
There’s no catch now
so we ship our reserves,
fill holes in markets.
My wetgear smells like saltwater
but I’ve been inside.
At home, at night
I dream of lobsters
still uncaught –
their armour frayed,
forming.