Accras de morue, paté antillais.
We grew up hearing about an island
we visited three summers. At home we
heard the music, held the fabric of the
madras—green, yellow, and red cotton plaid,
now sitting in the attic, waiting for
the right time to recount its origins.
We said “I’m ___” when asked, bonded from stories
we weren’t a part of, hoarding the warmth
of Mamie’s shrimp soup on a Sunday night,
the heat of the jambon de Noël on
Christmas Eves, Papa in the kitchen, oil
sizzling, dancing in the living room.
Colombo, langouste, et sorbet coco.
Denise Magloire was born and raised in France, and she is pursuing a Master of Arts in Writing in San Diego. Her work has been published in So To Speak and Driftwood. When she’s not writing or daydreaming, Denise can be found dancing in the bathroom or making soup.
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