treatswords

I pluck him from the Atlantic.

I find him drifting in a metal trap, his legs scattering back and forth.

He wants a taste of air, I want someone who wears a shell.

He is my Maryland blue crab.

…

Five years later, he is drying up.

I can see his gills expanding, aching for a rush of salt.

He doesn’t belong on land.

I’m not ready to let him go.

…

His blue exterior is hard to crack. The only time I see beneath it is when he drinks.

I’m in the kitchen, chopping sweet potatoes, my gray knit sweater sliding down my shoulder. He sweeps himself behind me, dusting his fingers over the hair of the woman I have tattooed on my shoulder.

He puts his claw over my hand and turns me to him. His mouth latches onto mine, his gapped teeth sucking in my upper lip. I rub my hand over his bald head, it’s warm from the kitchen light.

He pulls me in and we slow dance. Tipping us from left to right.

Water spills from his ears.

…

It’s late, I can feel the night growing tired. The stars yawning, ready to turn in.

He slips into the room, screams at the top of his lungs.

“It’s Goat, he’s dead.”

He slips to his knees. I hear a crack.

“How?”

“Overdose…heroin.”

“He was clean, wasn’t he?! Didn’t you just talk to him today?”

“Yes, he was clean for over a year. I spoke to him this morning. I knew it, I knew it. I could feel it all day. He was my best friend. You know how much he meant.”

Sobbing.

His shell splits open, shards of blue stick to the hairs in the carpet.

I crawl to him.

I begin collecting his shell, the sharp pieces poking the tender skin inside my palm.

I bleed a little, but I don’t mind.

He is my Maryland Blue Crab.

…

The death of Goat is the death of him.

They met when they were 15.

He was from India, he had lost his mother to brain cancer.

“After his mom died, he was never the same. He ran straight to the needle.”

He told me once.

I stay home from work for a week.

We lie on the couch, then in the bed.

“I’m going to run to my car to grab something.”

I say, fleeing so fast I forget to slip my shoes on.

I throw myself inside and shut the door. Rain cries down my windshield.

I ache. I call my mom.

“How do I handle this? How do I heal someone from such a deep loss?”

“You can’t honey.”

“Well, then what can I do? I beg.

“Just be there.”

…

He wakes me up from a light sleep.

“I can’t be here anymore, I just want to run back into the ocean, feel the waves on my face. I belong in Maryland.”

I panic.

I try and tangle myself around him, but he picks through me.

…

Six months later, I open the door to a familiar scene. He is on the couch, intoxicated. His beady, black eyes staring at the television.

Cans of beer tossed on the floor, crinkled aluminum.

I walk past him, and I hear him following me, his feet clicking against the hard wood.

click, click, click.

I turn to him.

“Fuck me.” He says.

We consume one another in bed. His eight legs wrapping tightly around me. When he finishes, I feel seasick.

…

He appears one night, slinking into the bedroom. I hear him bristling about.

“Where have you been?”

I ask,

“Out.”

“Where did you go?”

“Greg’s, we went down to the brewery near the water in Alki.”

I roll over, tossing my hair behind me. I can feel him breathing, staring down at me.

I wonder if I’m still sea-glass to him, a rare find buried beneath the sand.

“You were shimmery and green.” He used to tell me. “Tucked away, waiting for someone to find you. But then you came and you found me.”

The sheets smell like cigarettes in the morning. Dust from the night before.

I roll onto his stomach and burry my head into his beard.

His fingers don’t lace behind me, but I can feel his heart beating. It’s burly, it’s hot.

Dehydrated.

…

I decide to let him leave.

I don’t fight it when I come in the door to find him waiting.

Smelling of seaweed, his eyes brimmed with tears, claws clicking at the air.

“I’m leaving to Maryland .”

He collects his things, tucking them into his shell as he crawls out the door.

I follow him, deciding that I should be the one to put him back where I found him.

I scoop him into my hands, cradling him gently.

His sharp legs leaving small indents in my palm.

I release him back into the ocean.

I watch him sink to the bottom, bubbles rising to the surface.

His legs extend, he floats.

He lets out a long sigh, relief washing over his face.