Crawdads.

Nawlins.

Crawdads in Nawlins.

‘No one even says that here,” she says

having been here many times

dancing along the French Quarter

eating red beans and rice

coming in and going out on the Ponchartrain

‘You sound like another tourist,’ she wails

while we are in Nawlins

and I’m squeezing through the crowds

her hand in mine

‘A target, people will hurt us’

they might

they might hurt us in Nawlins

but I am inclined to believe

as the waitress puts down a high pile of crawfish

that I rip apart with poor technique

to her side-eye from the corner

while my girlfriend eats a po’ boy

backed up from the table

because the juice is going everywhere

that they won’t hurt us

they won’t hurt us in Nawlins.