The crabs seethe in the bushel basket. Their bodies are serrated armor colored Crayola blue and red, shiny and brittle as Bakelite cigarette cases. They are defined most by their claws, an ironic capitulation to the problem with hardness. One by one, Grandma grabs them with tongs and drops them into the pot filled with cold beer. But one gets loose. It hits the floor and all the life comes back to it. It waves its claw and scuttles. Later, my grandmother will swear the fright this gave her stamped the image of a crab on the belly of my father. Because our bodies are not enough, they must be made to include stories. But what of the crab? No one ever says: The end is forgotten, the story’s purpose fulfilled. For all we know, something dangerous is still moving in the body of the house.