Horseshoe Crab
by Chris Ketchum
Blue-blooded, antediluvian
and yet flown in
on the flood of tide,
we swarm the shore
by thousands, shells
baptized in moonlight,
to let our eggs into the sand.
We remember
what you call prehistory.
Before your slavering ancestors
unbent their backs,
whatever god worked
on our bodies
stowed his chisel,
swept the shop and
dusted off his shirt—
we had achieved
a fixity of form.
Now, you gather us
to siphon what the gods
of your invention
never gave you
as the dark waves
pulse against the coast.
What should we
make of your desire
for transformation
if not a sickness
of self
-hatred?
As your needles
drain our hearts,
remember, little anti-god—
you who unmake everything
but your own
image—we knew you
long before you cared
to recreate yourself
with looted blood.
You think you’ve changed.
You never have
known how to stop.