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.

Dennis Trujillo served in the US Army for twenty years and then taught middle/high school math for fifteen years. In 2010 he spontaneously began writing poetry not knowing where the spark came from. Most recent selections are forthcoming or already published with Atlanta Review, Ascent, Agave, THEMA, 3Elements Review, Blast Furnace, and SPANK the CARP.