It's Spring and the Mississippi writhes like a snake
in a sack, the wind tucking itself into the curves
of my body. I burn alive under the gulf sun, the glacial
swell of my northern thighs melting in the brutal early
And I would have wings to practice memorizing every
street, this city has music nipping at my heels, cocktails-
to-go signs leave me disastered, trying to play sober, to
not touch the art hung around the church yard of St. Louis
Cathedral on Royal St.
A city that sits inside itself and waits. Could I have stemmed
from its ribs? I'm living here in exile of release.
If you want a report of how I've changed, I can't deliver.
I've held the head of an alligator, long dead, teeth still intact
enough to scrape a deep cut like a kiss to the underside
of my wrist. I try to tell it just as it is.
I've gotten away with too much.
Leave nothing untold.
Now You Have Many Legs To Stand On with above/ground press. Her first collection of poems, Slow States of Collapse, was published with ECW Press. She lives and writes in Kingston.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan