Sand Crab (An Admission)

Each summer I plunge my hands deep into sand, 
scrape knuckles against millennia of rock, dig until

I feel against my palm the wriggling that means 
success. I don’t shriek or flinch. I’m skilled

at the capture, the catch and cradle, then 
in my palm the prize: pink-gray carapace,

eyestalks like tendrils, ten white legs frantic 
for the dark. I am teaching my children

how to dig for treasure, how to let touch
be their underground guide. I am teaching them,

I tell myself, kindness, because each beach day, 
a thousand times each beach day, I say

Keep the bucket water cold and Be gentle
and It’s probably time to let them go now. Still,

I keep digging. I love how every kid in earshot 
runs to share the jackpot of secret creatures. I love

my bravery, plunging my soft hand into
the unknown. I love the startle of unearthing

one, smooth and curved as a tumbled stone,
and finding at underbelly the orange iridescence,

a thousand eggs like tiny sugared beads. I love, too, my generosity when I say

Let’s let this one go, and gently lower the sand crab to the surf. Look, I say as she scuttles away,

we made her happy. What I never say
is Go, so that my children can catch yours.

Read more from Issue 21.1.