After the feast — tearing off aprons, backs and lungs, cracking the claws with the butt of a knife and eating the meat — after our bellies are full of succulent crab, comes the cleaning of the pot where legs have let loose into crevices, and claws, dropped here and there in the water, grip each other so tightly we have to pry them loose. We dump the water into the drain. It surges round, greenish-gray with the goo of crab. We think of the soft-shells, killed before frying, wish we had taken those instead, though in the sink, disembodied fragments of crab clog the drain, soft shell or hard. We rinse the sink, take the pot outside, wash it down with the hose. The water pings against the sides like the sound of shells scuttling against the fire, the steam, the heat rising as the shells turned slowly red, the claws twisting and snapping at death. We go on, cleaning the pot, thinking questions that cling like claws to the brain, grasping for expiation from these rituals of killing and eating, these preparations, always, for more and more and more.