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Arriere-Grand-Mere Claudia
they say my great-grandmother
could with the aid of poultice and incantation
pluck a wart from your body
throw it in the fire and
you wouldn’t feel a thing
my father drove me up
to her funeral along
the frozen Connecticut river
the air placid frigid silent
we passed countless covered bridges
after the service in west stewartstown
my uncle the organic dairy farmer
in what may be his only suit
remembered her as the woman
who rubbed a holy medal
on his irreversibly paralyzed leg