Raised by the ones who thought it was funny
flinging a horseshoe crab up on the dock,
my boys were four and five then; the visit short.
The older ran in terror; the younger grabbed a hammer,
smashing grassy shadows to help his brother—
his definition of love— violent, eternal—
and my parents laughed and laughed; they laugh and laugh.
I thought, How could I know how to love? You see?
Later, driving home, explaining deeply
into the rolling lull, crabs don’t attack—
terrified, crabs always want just to go home.
The backseat agreed they befriended the crab
because both brothers and crab want to go home.
Try not to smash anything that lives, I reminded.
I’m just trying to learn how to love.
–
Christina Linsin is a poet and teacher in western Virginia. Her poetry examines connections with the natural world, complexities of mental illness, and difficulties with creating meaningful connections amid life’s obstacles. Her work has been most recently published in Still: The Journal, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and The Mid-Atlantic Review.