We had to buy the crabs moving, as in scrabbling
sideways across the rough-planked, salt-bleached dock
away from grabbing rubber-gloved fingers.
“It’s no big deal, they don’t even feel it.”
Mainlanders all our lives, what did we know?
We were glad to be there, a full day’s drive
from Jersey’s brown-yellow air to blue-green coastal Maine
land of constant ocean and pungent fir where mica diamonds dance
on granite they tell us is millions of years old. Millions.
I tried to feel that through my sandals
teetering at the edge of heaving green and white surf.
Well they lied. The rock may have been here before dinosaurs
but don’t try to tell me when the sides of that boiling pot reverberated
with the scraping and clawing and lid-bumping of desperate creatures
they didn’t feel anything.
Our car smelled of ocean all the way home.