when she loosens her fist to let the 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,
fold inward in a cringe.
A mind works this way, in secret,
tirelessly shaping, excavating
a refuge for the 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
but a body building no.