Callinectes Sapidus
Hannah Whiteman
— a love poem
Beautiful swimmer. Such grace in the name
of a bottom-floor scuttler, paddle-legged flailer
whose apron I crack like a book spine to read
the little meat inside. I understand beauty late:
how females mate only once. Molting, the male
carries her in sapphire-tinged claws into the sea,
guards her as she sheds all skin. After, he holds
her body—hardening—until she can travel safely.
Up the Chesapeake, she carries millions of eggs
alone to release; watches the last of those loved
swim away beautifully. Months and months ago
you carry me into a restless Atlantic; hold me
tenderly in the face of an unbroken horizon only
to swim—strong—to shore. I watch, hardening.