Popping Shrimp Heads

Popping Shrimp Heads

Five pounds of white shrimp,
fresh off the Anna Jane,

Tybee Island, Georgia.
Chitin-wrapped gifts from the

cordgrass haven where Bull
and Savannah Rivers embrace

to form the Atlantic Ocean.
The shrimp are a satiny

translucence. A string of soft
marine opals, eyes now glassy

black beads peering up from
our stainless steel sink. Each

hand holds a shrimp, as the green
olive scents of Spartina and

pregnant mud waft upwards.
Grasping bodies gently, I

turn them, pleopod legs
to the outside, avoiding

the horns, polysaccharide
spears that exact revenge for

lost crustacean lives, but
The sticks are inevitable

because this is barehanded
work, gloves unable to palpate

the springy crevice between
thorax and abdomen where

a thumb must enter and with
a guillotine flick, separate

the transparent rectangle of
head, guts and antennal whips