Ode to Crabs

You clattering crustaceans of Chesapeake Bay, you,
you were so mean, so scary to me – a child without shell or claws –
when you'd break out of your bushel basket casket to scrabble
in the row-boat's bilge. My father, dubbed Crab King

of Crab Creek, used to scupper your escape, grabbing your back-
fins bare-handed, while you writhed, pugnacious and powerless,
claws clipping at double-speed but nipping nothing. He flung
you back into the basket where, berserk after your first flight,

you were captive again, clicking, seething and hissing crabby
curses, your eyeballs black with loathing. No one worried
about the environment then. You were just food. But not to us.
Not to us. We were not a very happy family, but your steamed

sacrifice for Saturday supper was the one thing we all loved.
My ritual service of spreading papers on the table and finding
enough nutcrackers always felt important and slightly sacred.
And everyone was glad to eat you – we were all experts

at extracting your sweet meat. Everyone was glad, even my brother –
the unhappiest one of us, whose life became a long battle
with the bilge of his boats and his brain – crabs meant love for him –
the only taste of it he had. We were not religious, but – you
– you were communion.

The Pine Room

The stand of pine trees, like ballet dancers in a silent room, balanced,
arms overhead, straight, still. I used to visit them when I was young.

To get there I had to go through a pathless forest of fallen trees,
branches strewn, tangled, webbed, great-knuckled root-masses

exposed. Tree trunks had cracked and split, their blackened daggers
pierced the air. I knew the place well. It seemed to be nobody’s.

I claimed it, strangely excited by this place of death and chaos,
and coiling, seething new growth. When I would finally

reach the pine room, I always slowed down, always entered the hushed
chamber on tip-toe: how had the pine trees remained so austere, unmarred?

None had fallen. They were well spaced, serene. They received me
graciously, if coolly, these stately queens. I loved to sit in their

green-brown light. I breathed of their stillness, and waited for one sound.
It never came right away. But, by and by, the trees spoke:

they creaked as they leaned, unseen, this way and that. Quiet. Creak.
I used to sit, thinking of ballet dancers, elegant, controlled,

imperceptibly losing and regaining balance. I thought of queens,
dancing a dignified saraband, secretly smiling behind their fans.

I live far away from the pines now, both in miles and years.
But I return often in memory to listen to the trees’ soft speech,

and to relearn lessons of balance (tenuous but possible), humour
(sometimes hidden, always sovereign), and prayer (even chaos

can have a still core), taught by pine trees poised in the centre
of a wrecked and pathless forest, arms overhead, straight. Still.

Grace Before the Meal

pots boom pans clank
cutlery clatters cans drum
wipe the world away
I’m cooking the dinner

peel grease chop blend mix
bake boil bubble stir pant
sweat steam toss drain mash
rush catch, wash dry clear baste
check taste salt

wait

tuck a red cherry tomato
near the green swirled spinach
soft yellow egg and creamy potato
looks fine sweep wipe finish
to table now

sun’s out

the window above
the kitchen sink frames new grass,
each blade sings with rain.

Basket of Apples

On the table
strips of sun
rest on the apples
in their basket

so the gaze
of the young man
rests on his young wife
at their wedding
as they dance

As a Benedictine nun, I am a member of a small Catholic monastic sisterhood. Eleven of us live, pray and work together in community, offer hospitality to pilgrims and spiritual seekers, and strive to maintain an atmosphere conducive to peace, silence and prayer. Mutual gratitude and mutual forgiveness make this possible and are the core of our spiritual practice. Interspersed throughout each day are both formal periods of liturgical prayer and more informal periods of personal prayer. One of the most fruitful forms of daily personal prayer for me involves what is known in monastic life as Lectio Divina, an ancient Latin term loosely translated as “Holy Reading.” This is the slow, meditative reading and praying of Holy Scripture. I spend two hours a day in Lectio. I find that this form of prayer, above all others, opens my heart and mind to the voice of God's Spirit, speaking through the day-to-day circumstances of life. I write poetry as a means of understanding my experience of Lectio and deepening my gratitude to God for his presence in my life.

Johanna Caton, O.S.B., is a Benedictine nun of Minster Abbey, in Kent, England. She was born in Virginia, and she lived in the United States until adulthood, when her monastic vocation took her to the United Kingdom. Sister Johanna's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Christian Century, The Catholic Poetry Room, The Green Hills Literary Lantern, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Windhover and other online and print publications.