Fear of Shrimps

I stare at a piece of Kahuku shrimp:
Orange body curled in a circle,
Hairy legs that fill the space in the middle.
I knew Father is around somewhere,

His small, slit Chinese eyes
Behind glasses,
Waiting for me to glomp down
On the shrimp.

But I can't do it
He likes it.
I don't.
He eats it with love;
I eat it with disgust.

The thought of even touching
A pair of those legs
Puts a queasy feeling on my skin.
But Father's face is always there.

Anxious, excited, yearning,
Waiting for me to eat this seafood thing,
Like a dog eyeing its steak.
So, of course,
I eat it.