Crabs


Mother likes crabs. a lot.
deep blue hues of raw
flesh soaked in a sour black ocean--
salted (or not)--vivid orange-red
scarlet fevers fading into the claws
clawing at freedom.

after a grueling day
of cleaning serving
sweeping dishes plates
floors people
who would rather s p i t at
her than towards the d r y food
she finally sits
clothed in crispy white
collared innocence
in front of globs of grey remains
lying on old newspaper tablecloth

handheld silver spoon
eyes concentrated on the task
of scooping out white juicy
meat underneath its hard shell

a pile of white rice porridge
waits patiently in an ancient orange bowl
for the Deliverance of
delicious drones of caviar

and after the
white shower of snow
onto the mountains of dandelions,
her scarred calloused
fingers contract their
powerful muscles to
lift the bowl toward the
empty seat in front…

where I remember sitting.

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This Poems Story

This poem is actually based on a photograph I found in the crevices of an old house. It reminded me of earlier days when Mother worked so hard for me, and she still does.