Poems - EMILY SCUDDER

Fiddler Crab

The live ones
quick, pop out
               of sand holes of their own
               crazy-making.

They dig (and
when the sand
               is wet) roll sand balls
into piles, a semi-circle
               around their hole-door.

In the same way

it’s a ghostly thing, really,
               the way they blow
end over end, lightweight
               and dead.

[first appeared in Agni Online]

photo by Emily Scudder