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.
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