poem a day

Return to New Orleans

Today, walking stacks, brushing fingertips against spines,

tears well up and spill over levees long ago breached.


That first time, only three months pregnant and

Five Songs

 I am an American woman, but here,

here in this city that gave us jazz and

gumbo and Tennessee Williams, I do not

fly a free bird. Memory can clip angel wings.


Willy does the hand jive on every corner,

hucksters and buskers hustle for quarters, and

women with chains heavier than mine offer a

taste of paradise in the house of the rising sun.


You think you can be a visitor in my life

but you don't know how difficult that may be.

The chains I wear, made of seaweed, will tighten

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