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.<br /><br />Cyril Wong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/caving-in-white-salted-flesh/
