Men are lobsters.
Women are lobsters, too.
They both crawl over
their seabeds being cruel
only to their
breakfast, lunch and dinner.
They grow gargantuan
in their girth, not thinner,
for their girth is
fondness, never tomfool-
ery. They be quick.
They be winners. They
be in every way
entirely new, and
except for sinners.
Women are lobsters,
When they approach
each other with their blue-
green lusts in
endless ocean night, renewal
is never thought of.
It is as if they
their shells as they
explode through the hinter-
I think of you in liquid silence. I scuttle
O my lovely, O my lobster, for
are lobsters, too.
Elegy for Nan Fry
You were the pear in your poem, and the pear tree, too.
You bent down your branch to “the handless maiden,”
and “in moonlight,” fed her. And you were the maiden,
hungry, always hungry and lost in her clothes. You
were the root, trunk, branch, and fruit. And the old man
“Deep in the woods . . . beside a stream,” doing his yoga,
becoming Tree, Fish, Swan, Bridge, where the “wide-eyed”
deer browsed at his feet, your feet—and you were the deer.
the “Riddle” in a too-big sweater, roaming the towpath
in every season, the “animal cries becoming human,”
the “five daughters of your mother tongue,” and
your mother tongue was poetry. You were the poetry,
the answer to all riddles. And so, you are. And yet,
Patric Pepper has published a chapbook, Zoned Industrial, and a full-length collection, Temporary Apprehensions, which won the
2004 Washington Writers’ Publishing House Poetry Prize (WWPH). From 2008
through 2013, Pepper was President of WWPH, and he continues to serve WWPH as
Production Manager. His work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies
including Beltway Poetry Quarterly, The
Broadkill Review, Cape Cod Poetry
Review, Confrontations, District Lines, Fugue, Gargoyle, and Innisfree