The Klyde Robinson Poetry Prize
Debra A. Daniel
The Inlet Where She Stands
Heat-tired from the nag of sun,
rubbing low on her back, the woman
sighs, worn to her dingy bones.
With string-tied chicken necks,
she lures side-stepping crabs,
uppity and blue-shelled.
She wades barefoot tough,
free as gulls swooping claim
to this span of shore.
She grabs the crabs, fills buckets
despite pinch of claw, despite
pluff mud sucking her down.
This inlet will open, and this sand,
and this ocean, and this earth.
Her tide is coming in.