The children take pity on the lobsters,

  
their pincers trussed with rubber bands 
though they're still immersed in water 

(a sad-looking tank in one corner of 
the grocery store); and we are sad for all 
the exotic fruit no one will buy: cherimoyas 

and horned jelly melons, softening to tallow 
in their trays. Who thinks anymore of the glut 
of cranberries, as soon as foil-wrapped

pots of poinsettia appear in the island 
displays? A while ago, a show played 
on the TV monitors of a sushi bar; 

we watched as two chefs rowed extra-long-
handled wooden ladles in water, prodding 
four eels awake. When they lit a fire beneath, 

we understood it was a giant chafing dish. 
The water boiled; the eels burrowed into 
the cool center of a large block of tofu 

near the top, floating half in, half out 
of the water. Can you think of one good
reason to justify making our hunger 

more pointed than it is, or more like a fable 
meant to demonstrate how danger whips
the blood into a more delicious frenzy? 

Most everything we eat is something we first 
need to change from its raw state into a form 
that won't protest when we tear it into bits.