The poet
at the microphone
with a love for Florida
and blue crab
for lunch,
maybe a lunch
spread out
on a nice linen
tablecloth
in the house
on Cedar Key,
was telling
the audience
about setting
crab traps.
How the blue crabs
were bastards.
Then she
began to read
her poem.
Sonorous and slow,
a luminous gem,
many faceted
with layers
I would probably
never
understand.
For I
Was thinking
Of the blue crab
And hoping that
when the killers
come for me,
when they try
to twist my skin
or break my neck,
break my hard crustacean
shell,
when they lie
in wait and set
a trap
that holds me
much too well,
then pull me up
into the light of day,
staring at my plump legs
dreaming of my softer,
more vulnerable parts,
inwardly planning
my demise:
Dropped, kicking
and scratching
and screaming
into their boiling
holy hell,
That I too
will be
half laughed at,
half desired
by the audience
(panting to please)
as a bastard.
Only creatures
so arrogant
they believe
they alone
are headed
for everlasting
existence
can so easily
shake off
the battle
for life.
The battle,
the will,
the drive to live:
Only instinct
in animals,
which is not what
we are.
And even though
She was one of
My kin,
My kind,
My tribe,
I couldn’t help
thinking of
the blue crab.
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