In the supermarket upturned octopuses
lie on stones of ice as on a cold beach
or an operating table. Obscene, as they should be
with their legs splayed, their underside
slick soft-blush-pink as a cunt.
Their anonymity is correct,
that they can turn over onto their back
and be examined under market lights,
all their petite grasping suckers
undulating, pulsing, picking up and
dropping the little clicking chips of ice.