LOBSTERS GROW THROUGHOUT THEIR LIFETIME (a.k.a. A Late Crustacean Poem for International Women's Day)

The girl scrunched her nose at

the hatchery, the fishy smell.

Her mum led her inside.

Aren't lobsters interesting?

A tank filled with dirty water.

Those aren't mud flecks, Mum said,

Those are babies.

Lobsters grow throughout their lifetime.

The next tank had fewer flecks

and the one after that had things that looked like lobsters.

The girl stared at the curves of their shells,

the curves that would be their pincers.

They arrived at the nursery,

large lobster mothers sheltering busy babies

crawling back and forth beneath stiff, still figures.

Mum drew daughter close.

The last lobsters were huge, one per tank,

men in aprons standing over them.

Occasionally an antennae twitched,

a pincer closed and opened.

The girl gripped her mother's hand

and they hurried out together

past cartoon lobsters collecting donations:

a pound each for the privilege.

At the car, the girl touched the window

while Mum watched, hand on the key,

wondering just how big they would be

in half a century.