the Soul Crab takes over

Soul Searching

   or  the Arrested Cop

Crime pays, satisfies the soul somehow.

That yearning.  An elemental surge

in ripping veins out from

under the skin

A cop jackknifed over the dumpster lip

digs an eight-foot wand

into the rectangular box.

He scatters tribes of crawlers.

Lodged in the far dark corner

A second quiet body sprays

scents attractive to

decomposers

When their turns come up, visiting bugs,

worms and smaller, feed expertly

on skin, fluids, nerves,

heart and liver

Another guest arrives at the luncheon party

of busy diners foaming at the

delicacies sweet and sour.   Presenting! …

Mr. Soul Crab!

The soul crab shuttles between He-is

and He-was, to measure how their souls

are breathing.  The cop’s soul

is strangling

The Crab makes an immediate judgment

(The word from the Crab Council to first responders:

“If any spine’s unwinding, knit it.

If the heart is split, fill the crack.

If the soul is drying, water it.”)

                                                                     

            In an instant the Mr. Soul Crab jumps in

He draws from the corpse a cylinder of soul,

empties it onto the Cop’s browned ulcerate Spirit,

which gasps and gulps in 

bubbles, wintergreen, the Easter Bunny,

Miles, Switzerland

The lab smells like Pine-Sol and ammonia

The corpse, laid out on stainless tanning table, breathes

In crab-scent, deep and sweet.  His body massaged,

probed, tickled, its sweeter parts removed,

looks pocked like Minnesota, with its ten-thousand lakes

A three-creature moment provides cream cake to share,

cut for the living and the dead, slabs to fill the cheek.

Our three Players ravage their slices.  Faces wearing stray icing,

the Cop, the Pocked Man and the Soul Crab

bring a sticky finger to their lips.

&copy 2013 Patrick Calhoun 29205