Issue 11 Poetry Editor’s Prize
Louisiana,
wring me out in the streets of New Orleans,
twist me like a wet rag that cleaned up the lacquered wood of a bar,
i am residue.
Bourbon St. is cradling my skull with noise, watching me through a black mirrorball,
keeping its fingers tight on the pin of a Hand Grenade,
and swirling its index in the eye of a Hurricane.
i am riding the evergreen eternal streetcar— name: Desire
to the corner shop where the cashier will make a nasty remark.
i am not for sale, window shopping only.
to the mansions out on the nicer side of town,
ones that were given trophy placards on their iron fences,
to the quaint photography studio with an artist of stories,
he makes things better, in a grandfatherly way— for a little while.
to the rainbow gum trees reaching in every which direction
except for where we’d like them to.
watch your step, for they are prying up the concrete
with arthritis-wrought root fingers.
i am the ferns growing out of the concrete that encases these sea-level tombs.
on my first visit,
the taxi driver said to us,
“you know, people living near those graveyards can’t be buried there.”
why not? we asked,
“because they’re not dead yet!”
and we groaned and chuckled,
and groaned.
there is a poet on the corner making a party trick of spitting words from a typewriter—
for a price.
excuse me, miss, could you write my eulogy?
i’m sorry, Louisiana, but
i am forgetting it all by choice,
or because I cannot remember.
the cobblestone streets remember, the paper-flowered tree remembers, even the bird with its
wings strangely turned up so that their underbelly faces the sun—
remembers.
the bellhops remember, the sickly white hotel bed sheets remember,
my sprained foot, my bruised knee, my bruised palm—
remembers.
bury me below the sea level,
or leave my urn above the bar
where i drank ribbon beer
and bet on winning cats,
leave me above the liquor headstones with no name.