SON OF CRAB
I am a sick man lying on a twin bed listening to rain. I have learned
cold showers in a solar house inhabited by crabs. Father crab sits in a
wheelchair clicking his remote. Mother crab devours mahi mahi out of a
I have the maid’s room. The maid left years ago.
The crabs go to bed at midnight, him in his hospital bed with a view of
the red ti garden, her in the king they once shared. They would claw
one another when the salmon curtains were drawn. Now they scuttle
through the house searching for water, entertainment, dead things to
Outside, rain floods the street. My skin hardens as I write.
Kirby Wright was born and raised in Honolulu, Hawaii. He is a graduate
of Punahou School in Honolulu and the University of California at San
Diego. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State