Ten, we tied chicken necks to strings; our clumsy hands
forming clumsy nooses forming
deep ridges in the quiver pink flesh. We pulled
we felt the loop’s bite
against the rubbery firmness of bone. Then we hung the necks
from the pier and waited, net ready, for the tell-tale tug,
to yank the string upwards and expose
the tiered crabs
to their prize like a cluster of tenacious grapes,
all red and brown, the colour
of salt dried blood.
Sonia Hamer is a writer from Houston, TX.