The first time, I approached you barefoot
on the wharf, where you lorded it atop the bushel
of your fellows, susurrating in the summer torpor,
your eyes stalked me as I tiptoed closer.
You extended your untamed and jagged pincers as if to
display the measure of your authority in the saltwater world.
Those amoral talons affixed to burley forearms,
a Popeye suited in custom armor. Later, I learned the word
carapace, but that Julian afternoon, relying on untutored senses,
I saw shimmery sage, turquoise, cerulean and poppy red,
dancing, imperial as mother of pearl, alluring, with seaweed for a foxy stole.
Your jealous mate righted himself, seething under his chitinous helmet.
Disturbed, you seized his leg for anchor and lunged over the basket rim
at my toes. Frozen, I curled under the naked innocents,
scraping the tender top skin on the rude decking. Father
grasped you unsportsmanlike from behind, stuffed you in the basket,
a move that set the entire Guantanamo of crustaceans
keening at the ebbing tide.
Summers later, I exposed my toes in the skiff,
dangled them over the side, delighting in rhythmic dipping.
I sprawled on the bow, open to breezes bearing fecund missives
from tidal fellowships in commerce beneath the surface.
My recline drew a stern warning from Father, reminding
of unwilling fellow passengers who might escape to the nether
reaches of the boat, threatening woe and calamity to the unshodden.
Sure enough, as if on cue, you and a robust teammate
took to the field, skittering sideways, tinka-tinka, in polar trajectories.
"Get him," spat Dad, meaning you by me and heading for your friend.
You backed under the forward seat, lifting your claws in menace,
smacking them against the planks in fearful parries.
I knelt on the seat, aligning bare feet with care along the board.
I faked with one hand, with the other reached beneath.
Timid. Prissy. Grip weak as tap water. I had you. Then
you had me by the pinky. I jerked to my feet, now careless of toes.
Wailing, I shook you free. You ricocheted off the bow, split the surface,
sashayed out of sight.
Nowadays, my quest is unrewarded. I long
to see a pyramid of you on the dock, to spy you waiting
in a float, bubbles rising in defiance. Your colors
arrayed like battle flags, Neptune's bold legionnaires.
Dressed in sensible shoes, I haunt the wharves, ready
to pay top dollar for another encounter, turned
away, most often, empty handed. "Try some mussels, Lady.
Come back on Tuesday, or maybe Joe can fill your order
down on Bushwood Wharf." Around I go to find a deserted
pier. Lonely skiffs, idle bushel baskets, leaning against
a limp rope, sagging in the accusing sun. Where are you,
lord of the water? Shining knight, tilting sideways in the silt?
Commander of the primordial bottom, the wave caressed parallel
to my airy universe, that world whose rhythms I harbor in my veins,
surf pounding my ear bones, when my heart drums a tidal echo?
Where, oh where, is the tyrant of the innocent toes?
Life has sunk to the keel. Still, bare soles trace warped planks
hoping for danger.
