I.
un-thaw in the metal sink. spigot neck leaking
as mom turned the knob. cool water over
the black-plastic tray of shrimp from weis.
we aisle-lingered while mom compared prices in
the white light of the store. 
dad traced his finger up the back of the pawn & said
this is where they remove the intestines from
a loose sweater-cuff string-- the body pulls 
apart. bowed-head pink, mouths sauce grinning.  
i knew nothing of their legs. they were picked off 
as well, scurrying free in the dumpsters-- 
so desperate for salt water that they knocked over 
shakers on the kitchen table. no one noticed.
we ate standing up. 

II.
when i tell boys i'm vegetarian their fingers
turn to cocktail shrimp-- thumb on either
side of my mouth, prying open. he'll find
my jaws full of shrimp legs instead of teeth. 
taken back, pulling them out & tossing them
in the open trash can. what a waste of scurrying.
at least the shrimp are low calorie. he said
if you're vegetarian there's so much we can't
eat together
when i finally bled, tooth-brushing in
the bathroom, i tasted ketchup & horseradish,
spit into the sink. will you hold back
my hair? i used to think that cocktail shrimp 
were raw until i peered in & saw a bin of 
them gone stone grey-- cold granite flesh.
he traced his finger up my back.