My mother must have Hera’s eyes
to free so many groins and thighs
from their chitin encasements

and have been cracking a long time
to think of creamy chowder,
its sinewy white nuggets bursting

with ocean saltiness, and not worry
about her young
enacting their nightly ritual,

arranging—between bread—
bologna so bountiful it’s spreading
like oil on water over us,

who, raised on cold cuts,
ask for nothing not affordable
and the baloney that is.

Growing up in San Francisco, Kenton K. Yee’s favorite food was Dungeness crab; his least favorite was bologna sandwiches, of which he had plenty. Kenton recently placed poetry in Terrain.org, TAB Journal, Sugar House Review, Rattle, Plume Poetry, and The Threepenny Review, among others. He writes from northern California.