by Dennis Trujillo
Ten per box—a fresh load of crabs
packed in sawdust on sale
at the Korean market. My wife,
overjoyed, mimics crab claws
with her fingers and thumbs
as she buys a box of distraught
crustaceans. At home she rinses
each one-by-one and places them
in the sink. From my desk
in the next room I hear
their ancient claws click and clack
against the metal drain
like trapped miners. Four she chops
for soup. Six are frozen for later.
I write this poem in their honor.