Robert Campbell
Say there are fifteen holy beatitudes for lobsters.
Pretend with me. Blessed are the spiny ones,
for their hearts shall be smoothest. That’s number
twelve. Blessed are they who perish beneath
the huddled mass of weaponry, for they shall see
the lobster god. That’s number seven. What do
we know about lobsters, really, beneath armored
shadow-anatomies, lumbering about
in the supermarket aquarium, scuttling silently,
pincers bound? What do we know about the god
that lobsters pray to? About what angels carry
such barbed artilleries of red, and to what kingdoms,
by what covenant? We don’t know anything
about the lobster god, his calcite throne
of antler reef. I think he would be wise and hard, hard
to love, his claws and antennae red, infernal almost,
his sayings secret and severe. Lobster Jesus
is neither kind nor personal. He isn’t going
to save you. No, the men are coming with their pot,
their forks, their metal tongs to crack your carapace
in two. They want your treasures to be cheap,
yielding, the shell of you strewn across a table.