Part 1
Waking to weight of white
against evergreen, doves balance
on plastic perches to feed. Woodpeckers
trill as finches red and gold flutter
between clumped falling flakes.
Four professors and six years ago, we gathered under moss trees in the bayou and started writing in our pirogues. Now we find ourselves miles apart longing for carports filled with the smell of crawfish under a blue moon. This is our correspondence with one another. These are our stories.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Mambo
Dear Professors' Plum,
Here in the grand of Mardi Gras
beads purple-green circle trees
and lightposts
illuminating anticipation
with memory fused through
tabasco-topped traditions,
hurricane spirits
sifting in and out bourbon
and zydeco
I know you know
a good throw
obliterates an orbit
guide us to assemble
at the roadsides en masse
in awe of crinkled tissue papers
covering parade floats,
from which neighbors throw treasures by heaps
and we are wealthy, all
all through the lens
with hands raised
stomping pavements for plastic
under Orion and Bacchus
Here in the grand of Mardi Gras
beads purple-green circle trees
and lightposts
illuminating anticipation
with memory fused through
tabasco-topped traditions,
hurricane spirits
sifting in and out bourbon
and zydeco
I know you know
a good throw
obliterates an orbit
guide us to assemble
at the roadsides en masse
in awe of crinkled tissue papers
covering parade floats,
from which neighbors throw treasures by heaps
and we are wealthy, all
all through the lens
with hands raised
stomping pavements for plastic
under Orion and Bacchus
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