The front porch sings with the sizzle of marinated meat.
Bodies are piled tight, sweltering sun dyeing skin a sweetened brown.
Salt pools between adult fingers trading cans for cash for hungry bellies.
I squat near the grill, waves of heat singeing the hairs off my face.
I'll watch the shells tremble, plastic knife primed in my left palm.
My father snaps his tongs and I flinch in anticipation.
He hands me my prize wrapped in a thin paper towel, and I scald my hands impatiently prying it open.
Nothing can go to waste. I suck the juices spilling along my wrist and add more to the shallow shell.
Oysters, Tabasco, and Lime.
The sour spittle pools, revealing an unfamiliar scrape.
I hiss in return, echoing the hot grill, my skin on fire.
Still, I bend backwards. Tangy flesh and spice fill my cheeks.
I lick the shell clean. I don't know when I'll eat next.
I'll greedily have my fill tonight, and think about that later.
Suffering stops for now.
--Kameko Y., Adult
