Howard Firkin
All right, you bastard bloody thing, you’ve beaten me.
You win. I’m pinned and prostrate. Will you please get off
and give the drugs some dulling time to do their work?
Come on. Allow me leave, at least, to look at you.
Relax your claws, unclasp, unhook and clamber round
where I can see you. Surly thing. Unsightly, ugly
thing. There. Now I know you: many knobble-jointed,
many limbed and lined and hinged and loose-linked thing.
I’d like to slide a skewer through that shiny skin
and pierce you, crack your carapace, or crush you flat
to watch you ooze life through your shell and lose your grip,
your hold on me. It might inspire momentary
pity, but I bet it wouldn’t. Bastard thing.
You win. So scuttle softly back and sink your teeth.