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58 Pot Luck One at a time we heap our images onto the table: a pot luck dinner. Someone has brought the shoplifted wristwatch, the keyed Caddy, a dead fish in a mailbox—Aunt Edna says it’s salmon though it looks like trout. There are the tree limbs and toilet paper, the dime bag of oregano, the fake ID. I’ve brought a bowl of arson for the turkey, its maniacal grin smoldering up through cinders. From the chair where Dad used to sit, Mom drops a mug-shot in the mashed potatoes, a little careless now, a tired look in her one good eye. No one says a thing. My brother asks me to pass the peas. ...

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