Dragoncrabs

The backs of my hands are

rough and sore.  

The wind and cold have

scorched them dry

without my realizing.

De-scorchment is impossible.

 

I’ll have to wait

until the exposed skin flakes away,

leaving me with new layers who

behave and feel

as they should.

 

My hands have been

scorched

by the cold and they are now

dragoncrabs,

crawling towards prey with

two moistureless legs extended.

 

They scuttle without grace on meaty limbs,

cracking at the joints,

flexing beneath their implacable shells,

snapping their tiny sharp teeth

in vain

inside of their unopenable mouths.

 

My hands are dragoncrabs and

they leave warmth in their wake,

fire,

heat that their hard bodies expel.

Their claws bleed and the blood

dries on their flesh,

staining,

leaving dark red clawprints on whatever they touch.

 

My hands are dragoncrabs,

without voices,

with unopenable mouths.