My Wobbly Bicycle, 173

I’ve been having a good time going through a file on my computer called “old poems.” The date on this one—thank you to my Mac for this—is 2004. We would have still been in Delaware, close to the Atlantic and the Maryland blue crab, which I miss as much as I miss anything about the east coast. Those lovely shells, steamed in something called “crab bake” that leaves them salty and pinkish. They have to be twisted and pounded and sucked. Even the tiny legs have a touch of meat if you’re willing to fight for it. They spread butcher paper on the table, give you a roll of paper towels, a mallet, a pitcher of beer, and you have at it. God, I can hardly bear to think of  them right now!Jerry doesn’t like crabs, and one doesn't eat crabs alone, so we would bring our friend Vic to the crab place in Elkton, Maryland, just 7 miles down the road from us. Vic and I would finish off at least a dozen of the number ones, the big ones. Elkton is (or at least was) rougher over there, across the state line, more down-home, more pickup trucks. It felt right for hammering the dickens out of defenseless dead crustaceans.There’s so little meat, even after a dozen or so, plus a token cup of coleslaw, plus beer, you wanted ice cream. I wanted ice cream, that is. Desperately, to get the salt out of my mouth.This poem is not about that. It’s just about crabs, who are both delicious steamed and are in the heavens. And, not incidentally, are my sign. Praise to the Crab Who turns her stalked eyesin all directions. Who isher own horoscope. Who therefore knowsthe precise hour to shedherself in May under a full moon.Who lets the male slipon her in her brief softness, because this is only halfthe story. Who burrowsalone into mud and waits, never consideringany other future. Whoout of the dark brings bright orange eggs,each drifting and moltingas if her own shell had brokeninto a constellation.Who then gets to live in the sky as well ason the sand under our feet,unconcerned with how earnestly we try to blendheaven and earth withour scuttling words. I made one small significant change just now. Moved a word. I think the reason this poem didn’t make it into a book is that I was never satisfied with the last stanza. It felt/feels self-conscious. It finishes off the poem with a poem-y flourish. Also I don’t like the title.I got a soft-shell crab (the young ones) as appetizer at Stella’s recently. It was good, but precious, you know. All fancy. If you hit it with a mallet it would smush to nothing.