Originally published by Cream City Review, Issue 44.2, Fall/Winter 2020

Horseshoe Crabs

One foot pulled from weeds and 

placed in a long shallow furrow

of water between sand banks

far enough inland now to be warm &

suspect; but it is only the sun and perhaps

the decay of a horseshoe crab further upstream 

like a hatbox filled with crumpled scraps

caecum nestled against gizzard, pericardious heart

winding down, compound eyes 

at rest, the pedipalp claws curled up 

under itself like two praying hands.

We always turned them over

if we found them on their backs, even if

they stank. Still we could be cruel

as well: pluck them from the water 

when they swam past, hoisting from under their

stomachs to bring them bursting 

through the lid of the world

into air like a magic trick. Little tanks

of life, flat dark skulls swimming 

past our feet up and down streams with 

who knows what inside. Each individual 

crab seemed older even than

the gestation of rocks, than dry gorges 

and the unnamed rivers that cut them,

inlets and oak trees and 

the long-fingered ancestors of whales

crawling life and the beat of the ocean 

itself against primate feet and still

I remember turning one over 

off its back and wondering

if it loved me for it