Anagram

On certain mornings,
I wake up 

and 

someone is taking 
a cheese grater to my heart.
 
Damn dumb cells . . .
they can't help 

but remember how, 

in a prior madness,
I used to rush about early
assembling my tarnished armor
strapping it over tender, tired calves
and harried hamstrings.

 

After preparing my war kit 
of:

• nutrient dense snacks, 
• various varieties of caffeine, 
• chocolate 

— perhaps to pull me through,

I would leap into my blue chariot
racing toward it again,
a minnow flapping desperately against my ribs,
gasping for breath,
starving in the dry dark cage of my chest.

 

 

I would arrive,

 stand boldly  

before their gray faces 

and lift my flaming sword,

trying to excavate their joy — 

Anyone? Anyone?,

Any damn ambition 

beyond maintaining position?

Please! I would plead —

This is so beautiful!

It is all around!

We are so lucky to study it so!

 

Implacable,

they stared blankly

and 

I would blaze brighter.

 

And over the years,

somehow they dulled grayer.

 

(How even does gray get grayer?)

 

Sometimes their mothers 
were treated 
to a private viewing of my beating.
A cruel, grimacing grin 
pushing against their taut cheekbones, 
their narrow pinched faces
pleased at the putting of me into
My Position.
 
For a while,
I fooled myself, 
pretended to settle for
their scraps of gratitude — 
A note here and there,
a Starbucks gift card —
could keep me going 
a whole other year.
Only my dignity 
forfeit to
Their Position. 
 
But over ten years, 
my body betrayed me,
growing too soft 
for my armor.

Have you ever poked a blue crab right before molting?

I have. ..
 
The rotten exosuit 
just slides off 
with the final poke.

 

The final poke —

a stifling sickness spreading. 

 

Now,

not just my dignity forfeit 

but,

my life and those I love

forfeit to 

Their Position clear

as their naked refusing noses

on their snide snotty faces.

 

I remember . . . 

 

My sword clattering to the ground.

My armor sliding off.

My soft pink body beneath.
 
(After molting, 
blue crabs have to 
hide under a rock for a while 
to keep their squishy bodies safe.)
 
On the way out,
I left one final worksheet for them.

The bit of parchment read:

"Giving up" is an anagram for __________?
 
They always liked fill-in-the-blank.
 
On the flip side,
.
.
.
.
.
(if they bothered)
. 
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
the answer is
. 
.
.
.
.
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.
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.
.
"Letting Go."