Hermit Crab's Lament

I have a lot going on at the moment, and also it’s death hot, so in lieu of a proper post this week, here is an old poem from my first chapbook, “The Goatfish Alphabet”. Enjoy, and stay safe in the heat!

Hermit Crab’s Lament

You who call us

house proud and vapid

have misunderstood.

Do you think we merely

fumble our way by instinct

into any hollow object?

You can't comprehend

the arithmetic of our choices; the ecstasy

of toil in a hard, rank womb.

I will admit to a touch of pride.

I’ve always been keen on headroom,

though we can ill afford

to be choosy in these times.

I remember the days of abalone ceilings, the yolk

of my belly nestled in porcelain ribs, nights

when we met the Pylochelidae in secret,

to whirl across the sodden dune,

showing off our spiral cloches.

We danced to forget that our shelters

would again abandon us.

It’s of no consequence

these days, I suppose. They’re all a poor fit now.

The wind oozes through, no matter the rental.

The shore is a wasteland of broken cups.

It’s about the seeking, they tell me.

Well cold comfort. My whole

damn species are fools, always skittering

toward some fresh perfection, always

outgrowing what loves us.

Only God has the courage

to go without a crust, to linger

as tender as a polyp in these barrens.

When he taps our walls for the final eviction,

We will be unable to hang on, unable

to refuse. He will stagger with us

towards our first, most perfect home.  

--Kristen McHenry