Allegory

                                                                                                         Karen Holmberg

                                                                                                                                    My mother strokes the sand

                                                                                                                                    toward her with her palm, drawing

                                                                                                                                    the story out, then levels it

                                                                                                                                    back with the edge of her hand.

                                                                                                                                    All the while
                                                                                                                                    a ghost crab,
                                                                                                                                    half-hidden
                                                                                                                                    under a canopy of crisped sargassum,
                                                                                                                                    so well-camoflaged

                                                                                                                it's just a blur of movement,

                                                                                                                has been sliding in and out

                                                                                                                its tunnel, forming identical boulders

                                                                                                                of damp sand to stack

                                                                                                                                    at the entrance,a bulkwark.
                                                                                                                                    The story is a stone she collects
                                                                                                                                    from the tideline of the past

                                                                                                                For years it's arrived

                                                                                                                again and again,

                                                                                                                as if something

                                                                                                                to her mind

                                                                                                                tumbles it,

                                                                                                                                    and returns it to her tounge,
                                                                                                                                                               a sparer truth:
                                                                                                                                    once she hid a pill bottle in her pocket,
                                                                                                                                    when the shop owner's

                                                                                                                back was turned, pulled

                                                                                                                a myster snail off the glass

                                                                                                                and dropped it into the vial

                                                                                                                of whater, snapping down

                                                                                                                                    the lid.
                                                                                                                                    When her father
                                                                                                                                    saw in her tank, he wrapped
                                                                                                                                    her braid around his fist
                                                                                                                                    and wrenched her off her feet

                                                                                                                A new detail brightens

                                                                                                                the memory's

                                                                                                                aching chamber. He

                                                                                                                gave her aquarium away.

                                                                                                                                    When she loosens her fist
                                                                                                                                    to let fine sugar pour
                                                                                                                                    through the hourglass
                                                                                                                                    of her hand, the crab hunches,

                                                                                                                sinking the picks of its legs

                                                                                                                in the sand. Its eye bulbs,

                                                                                                                lusterless as if dipped in black wax,

                                                                                                                folk inward in a cringe.

                                                                                                                                    A mind works in this way,
                                                                                                                                    in secret,
                                                                                                                                    tirelessly shaping,
                                                                                                                                    excavating
                                                                                                                                    a refuge for tender self. a child
                                                                                                                                     steals the power she longs to have

                                                                                                                What's a snail's shell

                                                                                                                but a coiled tunnel.

                                                                                                                What's the tough door

                                                                                                                btu a body building no.