Generations

The rich taste is still on my tongue

as I clean carefully, an important part of the ritual -

every tool, every receptacle scoured 

then placed into the dishwasher for a final disinfection.

Every surface washed, washed again.

The spiny, bright red carcasses -

jagged and wet -

are piled into the waiting double-layered bags propped in the sink;

bags are tied off, placed into the kitchen trash -

which is immediately tied off and taken to the outside bin.

The germ load is negligible; the residue easily wiped from surfaces.

The taste...every buttery, white-and-red fleshy bite...exquisite.

But that smell.

The heavy odor hangs in the air

clings to every surface

coils around the coils of my hair,

sinks into my pores.

Too hot outside to open windows

(why am I living here...in...Allentown...?),

I'll clean again tomorrow and wait for the smell to dissipate.

But before the ritual,

seawater dripping from my elbows,

fingers raw from ripping apart at joints,

busting open at weak spots...

I stand over my kitchen counter in post-workout-shower pajamas, 

barefoot and grinning like a girl in love,

and shovel bite after bite straight into my mouth;

some get slopped through the custard dish of melted butter

but most go straight onto my tongue...

I sigh deeply, eyes closed, savoring...

I think of all the men in my bloodline who have broken their bodies 

or lost their lives hauling these gorgeous, 

deep-brown-and-golden ancient insects from the frigid currents 

at the bottom of the Atlantic.

I think of the sun creeping-then-blasting over the horizon, 

melting its colors across the surface, 

painting over the blue for brief day-breaking moments 

until the oranges and pinks melt away again and leave the blue - 

sparkles dancing across the surface, blinding.

Or the heavy mornings of air so thick with fog that even they could get lost.

Or the bitterly cold March mornings 

with wind that cuts through every layer of wool, neoprene, gortex, skin-blood-bone.

My father, his father; my brothers.

My uncles, their sons.

The men who married my cousins,

the island girl who divorced one.

The men who learned from their fathers, or neighbors, 

or the one who moved to town during high school -

all were beckoned by the unexpected Sirens to a harsh, grueling vocation.

I might not want the smell to linger,

but I'll hold close my memories and quiet reverence 

for the work it took 

to get these perfect creatures out of the ocean 

and into my happy belly.