Ecdysis from Issue 89
The female lobster waits by the den
of the largest male, wafts perfume
in his direction, the invitation to mate
or be eaten. Boxing proceeds until
she rests her pincers on his head,
a sign of her readiness. Only she
knows when to secrete the enzyme
that exuviates her shell, splits it open
like a too small suit, to slough off
the old carapace, a process named
after the Greek, ekdysis, meaning
“getting out.” What happens next
in the watery room, no one likes to
talk about, except to marvel how
it’s worked for 500 million years.
But I’ve read that she surrenders
her soft parts to him, then rests
under his protection for weeks
turning in milky softness until
her hardness returns, the chitin
of armor growing back like a tunic.
That she rises to part without
a backward glance, it’s only human
whimsy to report. But we neglect
to mention how she prepared
for this for months, tattooing
onto soft tissue every section
of spine, pigment, and follicle
like a blueprint, how she withdrew
blood from old claws, extracted
calcium and stored it in sacs
along her stomach lining,
then waited for the moment
to drink enough saltwater, to swell
and force off the old crust then rise
with a new mouth, antennae, new gills.