R. T. SMITH
Crawdads on the Styx
In mud the gray of brain matter
they raised their slobby towers
and crawled about, ten-limbed, in armor,
as if rumor said the mad Achilles
still haunted the shore and current
bringing death to every trespasser.
We wanted to boil them scarlet
and rip off their heads for the meat,
the poor boy's succulent lobster.
We wanted to be ancient warriors
with gold and girls and honor.
At night we'd dream them back
and scavenging, all claw and scamper,
their soggy nests the surest gate
to enter the life of the hidden river.
return to top