Self Portrait as Crab

Crabs, along the Gulf Coast, the water green-gray

as gumbo, scuttle across the seabed in ambling misdirection,

not heading toward a destination but angling to avoid fear.

I’d set string traps tying chicken necks, the malodor luring my prey

to an ignominious death, their claws ripped without ceremony,

their carapaces thrown into boiling water, the cooked crabs readied

for my family to slurp the disemboweled hollow bones of lowly

creatures stuck at the bottom of the food chain, their lives mired in mud.

That’s me. I too am amphibious, not quite comfortable here or there.

I too clad myself in an exoskeleton to protect my soft-shelled emotions.

I too mire in misdirection, fearing direct confrontations that might

impale me. I too scuttle, mud-slung, living in darkness.

I too fear the light, seek the depth. I too feel low, the nearing

inevitable disembowelment. I too pause to be caught by a waiting trap.