Leaving New Orleans

Leaving this city of
dichotomy, of sin and
goodness, Piety and Desire,
lack and plenty,
black and white.

Leaving today, of all days
when you are arriving,
making promises
of hope and progress.

You, who, I am told
are the living bridge
stretched over these divides,
the Mississippi; you who will
hold the flood waters back.

Leaving this city,
and I wonder
if you will make good.
I wonder if you really will
hold back the water,

or at least care enough
to send it down St. Charles
instead of
St. Claude

New Orleans, Day Four

I have three cuts on my leg. They look worse than they are. One big bruise on my right calf, the origin of which is uncertain. On my right arm another bruise is developing, the shadow of a circular rainbow slowly becoming visible, like a polaroid picture. I am being shaken. I am being battered. I am a battered woman in the best possible way.

They call me honey and sweetheart. But they also don't ask me whether or not I can lift and hammer and demolish. Because of this, these words, these identities, don't seem quite as demeaning as they usually do. For once, it is good to be a honey. Sweetheart has a strength to it, and is covered with dirt and termite dust. I am a woman; watch me tear this roof to pieces. Put a new one in its place.

I have never felt stronger, and in more ways than one.

North Shore in January

North Shore in January.
Masts and old wood litter the coastline.
The ground underneath me comes loose,
Becomes liquid, the air

Swells with the brawling of boat against landing,
Landing against pier.
I am facing my fears; wobbling,
watching the coast guard slide in
Until the snow sinks through my boots.

This place is full of things
I can’t name. I try:
Buoy, fishing net, schooner.
An unfamiliar terrain spotted with
The familiar. You in the kitchen,
This cat, this song on the radio
That sounds like my mother.

I burrow into these things,
Peeking out on the unknown.
I learned to do this from years
Of watching cats on windowsills.