From the Fishouse

An odd infinitive, to crab, intention
wavering like a spirit level’s

bubble between ode
and deed, teaching my nieces

patience, I suppose; how some things must be
taken unawares; that we can draw up

a mystery in fingerbreadths of string, or lure
it toward counterfeit moons. Placing

the mesh between you and the depths
you flee to, we scoop with a nimble wrist turn

as you shoot sidewise powered by delicate
sculling oars, earning the Latin handle

Callinectes sapidus: beautiful swimmer.

But not tonight; tonight you creep
with the rolling motion of blown thistledown

into the net. Pulled into unbuoying air
you’re a sodden giant, seven inches

point to point. You’ve taken
rapid transit to doughy old age, all

minerals of your hardened past
retracted to the gem of calcium

you hold near your heart, if you can be said
to have one. Cautious, we depress

your shell, padded as a damp cigar,
the blackened green of bruised leaves. We squeeze

the flaccid threat of the opening claw, jelly filled
as the seaweed’s float, and lay the throats of our fingers

on the pliant spines of your guillotine-to-be.