Spring 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1992 |

Lobster

I don't think you ever got used to crabs whose claws you extracted with dental forceps. You preferred cut-up meat with fulkas, but your Karachi youth could not resist the sea. The Chesapeake's cream of wheat sand was ample enough to burrow in, so you went yearly to be buried and burned, to crawl out of it scorched and peeled like a spiced shrimp, a pallmall mallet sent from Somerset or a lobster against the timer, stubborn, done-for, refusing steam. Resident Alien, it was your own dream to evade a relocation camp with your bride. An immigrant is a kind of suicide.

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By Reetika Vazirani

I don't think you ever got used to crabs whose claws you extracted with dental forceps. You preferred cut-up meat with fulkas, but your Karachi youth could not resist the […]

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