EMILY SCUDDER
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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]
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  • Home
  • Poems
    • Fiddler Crab
    • ​Thursday Night with my Daughter in the Emergency Room
    • I killed it
    • Walking to Old (Japan, 1983)
    • In the Provincetown Dunes
    • In His Sleep
    • Math Problem
  • Poems, Online
  • Feeding Time
  • Natural Instincts
  • Change of Pace