We Used To Be A Hurricane

With eyes that breach the air,

departing across the runway curves 

of a naked back, lifting off and

out through the open window

and onto the thin, cobbled street,

speckled with crowds scuffling,

walking straight while looking down.

Continuing now with a spiralling,

panning back up the brick blocks of

an 18th-century maison off Rue Royale,

snaking in between the rods of

black cast iron balconies,

ice clinking like a chilled swordfight,

Sazerac swirling and dripping off tongues.

With ears that perk to the booming

of drums and black shoes tap-

marching, the squeal of trumpets,

lagniappe spirituals belting from

the lips of Creole youngsters down Rampart;

the wind is loud and soaked carrying

glee-filled shouting and the precursors

to a drunken day melting into drunken night.

But for now, her breathing brings her closer

and then away, bellowing sweet, slim nostrils

flaring, reaching to steal the scent of
deep chicory and powdered pasteries where

Cafe du Monde ushers in wave after wave,

filling bodies with that centuries-old need,

spitting them out into the mule-dipped Square.

And the cathedral bell spills into the morning,

abruptly snipping the conclusion of her dreams;

she livens up the sheets with limbs stirring

and as I watch the Mississippi brew and swirl

inside the brown-green bayou of her eyes,

her voodoo charming my Cajun soul, flooding

me, shuttering my levee heart without ceasing.