The Blue Crab – Melanie Mendenhall

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.