eating crabs with michelle

with a cigarette
clenched in the corner
of her mouth, she
says, i went to
my gyspy friend
rosa the other day
and she suggested
that maybe i should
change my name, which
in turn would change
my karma, my luck.
so i did it, she tells
me. she sets her
cigarette down, blows
out some smoke then
carefully,
like a surgeon,
pulls out a thick
strand of white meat
from a crab leg.
i went down to
the courthouse,
filled out all
the papers and voila,
changed my name,
but just my first
name. i like my last
name, smith. so i
kept that. i wipe
some butter off of my
face, and lick
the orange tips
of my fingers.
so, what is it,
i ask her, did you
go for brittany,
or sasha or some
other stripper
name like kendra.
i smack my wooden
mallet down hard
against the back
of another crab,
sending shell
fragments flying
everywhere.
my fingers are
bleeding
and i think may have
cut my lip, the bay
seasoning is making
it burn. i'm
starving and
nearly drunk off
of one beer sitting
in the boiling sun,
at a picnic table
in ruth's, back yard.
i haven't had any
luck with my
old name, she says,
three marriages,
the bankruptcy, i
even had shingles
last year. i had
two flat tires in
two weeks, that never
happens. i just needed
a change, like
my gypsy friend
told me. ruth is just
not the name
that defines me so
i changed it to
michelle. it's sexy
and classy. i've
never known a michelle
that didn't have
her act together.
michelle, my belle,
i say to her, biting
down on a razor
sharp shell, trying to
suck out a tiny
sliver of crab meat
from a half broken
claw. hey, ruth,
michelle, she
corrects me. right,
michelle, do you have
any sheet metal tools,
or some real food in
the kitchen and some
bandaids? i'm thinking
that maybe we can
call in a pizza.
what do you think?