We bind together with the impact of a cooked lobster’s last scream.

Without hesitation, we plunge the crisp sea life into a roiling pot,

Searing tender, unimpeachable flesh—

Stilling the brain and heart in one torturous, barbaric act,

Which we distance ourselves from in the anticipation of watering salivary glands.

But if one of our kind were to come to the same fate,

We would have no problem rioting—

No problem fighting—

Killing.

The one difference between us and our fellow creatures is this:

Our words make more of an impact on us than sounds.

Because we cannot hear the words

Within the screaming of the lobster,

We dismiss them

As if they are just the voices of ghosts

Whose thoughts were long ago lost.