If fate and luck wills it,
once a year we converge
to celebrate family
and summer
and the bounty
of granite coastlines
and the feasts
of local farm stands.
If we are especially fortunate,
a relative will negotiate
with a lobsterman
down the dock
to secure a sack of
Homarus americanus.
Victorious, they appear
hoisting a recycled,
double-lined
paper market bag
wriggling and
accruing puncture holes
exposing sneak peeks
of piqued crustaceans.
One grown pair of hands
will nestle the heavy sack
among mounds of crushed ice
separately procured
from the local bait shop
to begin the banded captives'
gentle descent into icy numbness.
Elsewhere,
another pair of large hands
will strong-arm a massive steam pot
atop a portable induction burner
propped on the picnic table.
Once the arctic bath has
performed its henchman job,
an elder male approaches
each slumbering decapod
with an ice pick
to swiftly dispatch
one at a time
before lowering each
into the roiling water.
In another pot,
summer corn steams
and tomatoes drip
sultry seed pulp
on walnut end grain.
A guest is back-slicing
chives from the garden
and my mother is warming
small ramekins of butter
in the oven.
And then
it all comes together
from the corners of
the kitchen and the porch
and the deck:
a feast fit for high summer.
