Terin Weinberg
Stone Claw Crabbing
Tavernier Key, FL
Five-foot waves hid the cages
soaking on the ocean floor,
braided ropes grew
slime-green in the underwater sunlight.
Buoys bobbed slightly
while the boat bounced
in the ocean like a rubber duck
in the bathtub, wobbling
to stay afloat. Two sets of hands
worked to hook and pull
the sunken trail markers
off the ocean bottom. The cages,
holding the question of emptiness,
were hoisted portside.
Among the pig’s feet and bait
ballyhoo, the crabs’ broad
bodies lay like treasure, their mouths open,
revealing bubbles. When my father reached
inside, he fought with the crabs
for their arms. He snapped them off
at the shoulders on the bucket’s ledge,
then tossed the bodies, back to the broken sea.
epiphyte lullabies
in the summered-swamps
there are fuchsia orchids
budding & they don’t give
a damn about you or your blue
eyes—they know the way the sun feels
on their stamens. wander your focus
to the murk, to your stuck-bottomed
boots slurping at the mud.
+
in the crotch of a tupelo tree
a moss orchid digs its
roots, decides to hold on, to bloom.
& it still doesn’t give a damn
as a mosquito drones over the buds
& body lingering in the water.
hold your breath, the swamp
doesn’t need you here.
Terin Weinberg is an MFA candidate at Florida International University in Miami, Florida. She graduated from Salisbury University with degrees in Environmental Studies and English. She serves as the Poetry Editor for Gulf Stream Literary Magazine. Her work has been published in journals including Flyway, Moon City Press, Waccamaw, Barely South Review and The Normal School.