To Merisier, A Declaration

I am elephantine
I am charging, drumless, toward nothing
No one stole anything from me


Old nemeses, you and I
I know you helped the third son
Because despite what you thought magic should look like
You were entranced from the moment you heard my drums
Because you couldn't get me out from under your skin
Call me pachysubdermal


And now as I careen 
I am a sight of arresting beauty:
Thousands of pounds moving all at once
Skin scored with deep, branching rivulets


I am unflinching, hurtling forward
And potent as memory


However strong you may be, Merisier,
When you have won the story,
I will break into a thousand tiny pieces
Spread all over the country
And the final word--the ceaseless echo of elephant footsteps--
Will not be yours, vodou man, but mine

Dépaysement

It's not as simple as roux and hurricanes. It's her brown skin and saunter, the way she electrifies straight hair. Louisiana drips down my back and wedges herself under my fingernails, under my tongue. Louisiana is damp and panting.

Beyond the flash of sequins and tease of feathers and the allure of misbehaving on Bourbon Street, Louisiana spits at local color. It's rust from her mouth into her Gulf, and how she is the deep groan of a pier settling into the murky spillway.

Louisiana does spill. She flops into the soup beans and ham I eat here. Fat and gorgeous and sweating, she rolls her eyes at the foolishness of Appalachia--where nobody knows enough to make groceries--and says a novena for your sister, the one whose husband ran off last August, the hottest damn month of the year.