by Heather Truett
I want to write about the mole
crab, its small
white claws half
heartedly opening
and closing
in the air, the way
the waves refuse
to take it and I ask
the sky to send
a bird to eat it,
so at least its death
will matter, and this
is me, putting my
human ideas of life
and matter, of meaning,
into the ocean and asking
her to bring me back
a lesson I can gift
wrap into a poem. She
will not oblige me. Two
young men bring
fishing poles, let
their lines rest
in the surf, watch
as sea weed wraps
the string in green,
like a holiday
garland. What
are they celebrating,
but the circle
of life, dinner,
no different than
a cat, taking
pleasure in its kill,
in the tease
and play of capture.
I sit silent. Pages
flap in the wind. I don’t
check the time. For the first
time in weeks, pause
and exist, here
in the sand, the sun,
alone with apex predators
in cargo shorts
and a dying
mole crab.
Heather Truett holds an MFA from the University of Memphis and is a PhD candidate at FSU. Her debut novel, KISS AND REPEAT, was released from Macmillan in 2021. She has work in Hunger Mountain, Whale Road Review, and Appalachian Review. Heather serves as editor-in-chief for the Southeast Review. Find out more at www.heathertruett.com.
January House Literary Journal 
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