Inspecting the Crabs
by Gabriela A. Igloria
Between the lobster tank and the four-ninety-
nine per pound head-on shrimp, there they were:
piled in barrels large enough to hold two
small children each, marinating in their own salt.
We stopped to watch them whenever we passed
through the seafood aisle of the Asian grocery.
How they pinched and jabbed at the air,
at each other, like Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots
until one broke armor, ripped a limb clean
off its opponent and raised it: trophy or flag
teetering on the warm edge of aliveness.
My elders called it crab mentality, understood
their snap and tangle of claws as nature.
Looking at the crabs now as I choose
which ones to eat, I know we got it wrong.
Listen—a song bubbles from their mandibles,
of mourning or rage or both. What else to do
in these times if not hold on tightly to another.