the blue crab, runa the wise, a profile

  



the blue crab	

my father wasn’t interested in tennis 
or painting or gardening 

the only hobbies 
that interested him
were ones that could make you money 

my father was gambler
and money-obsessed 
even the books he read and the tv 
shows he watched 
were money centered.

but I think one day he realized 
it was a problem 
and tried to break out of it by buying
a russian sailor shirt
and a little sailboat 
called the blue crab 
and taking a course on the art of sailing
then entering a race 
that took place on the lake behind our house 

the race was a well-advertised
event in our neighborhood 
I didn’t see it but noticed the next day 
a white ribbon 
with a bronze medal 
displayed on the kitchen table

“wow,” I said to my mother.
“dad came in third place 
in the race? that’s great.” 

“it is great,” she said.
“I’m so proud of him.” 

“how many boats 
were there?” 
I asked. I was thinking along
the lines of ten 
or fifteen.

“in the race?
oh just three.”

“what?” I was shocked.

“yea, 
that’s all.
but please don’t say anything 
to your father, 
I don’t want him
to be discouraged.” 

“alright,” I promised
and I didn’t say anything
but my father never touched 
the blue crab again 

for the rest of the time that 
we lived in that house it sat in the backyard
facedown
under the willows 
a slumbering tortoise
ashamed to come back out of its
shell. 











runa the wise	

before she was sent across three 
countries in a cube
van to come live with us, 
runa’d had two pregnancies, a bout of homelessness, 
a starvation period, an eye operation, 
probably never saw a body 
of water, and never slept 
anywhere but on the cold Romanian ground. 
Runa is a shar pei mix, golden 
of fleece, face furrowed with all manner 
of thick, contemplative wrinkles.
Sometimes when I look at her I see 
a guard dog for some ancient Chinese 
monarchy. Sometimes I see a philosopher, 
a lion, a fox, a clairvoyant, the poet 
Li Po. Runa contains multitudes, 
much more than many people 
I know. Even when she chews 
a stick or sticks up her fluffy tail and wiggles 
her doggy butt in a bush, 








a profile		

who would’ve known the same guy 
who considers 
anything with a vegan 
label an existential threat 
on a par with the suitcase nuke
is also the guy 
who’s never come within a bargepole’s 
distance from the self-checkout line 
and the one who refuses to return 
his shopping cart 
to the stack but rather leaves 
it in the gap between his jeep grand 
cherokee and the car next to it 
a 3/4th drunk plastic cup of cream soda
sitting in the cup holder who would’ve
known who would’ve known 
who would’ve 
known?