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Boil 
by Claire Remley

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~After Fatimah Ashgar’s “Drown” 

It is the last memory I will ever have of my grandfather: my fingers covered in cajun spices, his snowlike mustache drenched in shrimp juice. My mother across from him, mouth in a trembling smile, sadness tucked behind her teeth. 

Is it too spicy for you? My tinkerer-grandfather 

who is always working laughs, I bite my lip and nod. All the pots in the house have become memories pained, hindsight. All the pictures are bombs exploding. 

Everything leads to the boil of shrimp, 

the body my grandfather will die in from cancer. But today the body has not boiled over, only the pot. Only the shrimpman with a paddle in hand. Let’s get custard 

at the old shop. I know it’s bad for you, Claire. 

But that’s what vacation is for. A joke between family before the storm. A joke where I am tucked between my brother and the kegerator, the shrimpman’s hot corn & potatoes 

of sweet custard dripping onto the counter.

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