Author Information
The Crab
Folder:
2006 torn from tendon
the shell. a boat, a cradle, an ashtray
once i cut my palm
wide red open
the bubbles
tiny hills of adipose,
spilled out.
that is your back. yanked apart,
tiny teeth
on quivering layers of soft white inside
juices trickle; your soul escaping through fingertips.
Floating on her back
she devours you.
Grandfather.
The wheeze of the cigar.
Lips which breathed through the barrier of tobacco and 131 known carcinogens.
When the white bubbles appeared
the relevence of tomorrow
was abandoned like scattered newspages
on the sidewalk
your skin smelt of whiskey-soaked tips
until you were that thing which defined you.
He got up and left. A short glass, melted cubes and candy wrappers.
i stared hard at the door.
hoped that it would open again; knew
that it wouldn't.
Through the window
a little girl waved a thin plastic wand
and the messages she wrote
floated
up
to the sun.
The otter makes her den along the rocky shore.
i watch her run her pups, teach them to bob and fish.
The black silk scratches; catches on calloused skin. The fresh cut flowers
are nauseating.
i pick at the stiches on my palm and watch
my soul
fall
into the pot screaming
