Following the White Line Home
The Tennessee hills roll voluptuous shoulders
against the hairy chest of another morning.
In his dashboard pulpit
a Baptist preacher rocks,
throwing his voice down from the mountains,
"Are you ready
"to receive Jesus?"
I swivel the knob, but get only static,
redemption or silence—
Opting for Christ, I roll the window open,
smell the South—swamp water, mosses,
thick diesel fumes left by the big haulers.
How many times, Momma,
have I heaved myself behind this wheel
to come home, to hide in your rooms
until I feel healed?
How many mornings have found me
flying over the Huey Long Bridge,
skimming the rooftops of New Orleans,
bounding up the steps, those old stone steps,
to see your eyes squint—
the shape behind the screendoor?
And how many times have you risen
to this occasion with the same joyful newness,
came leaping around the kitchen chairs
to slosh, oh sweet momma, into my arms,
to way milk used to pour from Bessie's udders
when we lived on our farm,
two streams frothing the empty bucket mouth.
Bourbon and Dumaine
And what does it matter now
if all our irrefutable songs
turned out to be mere lies,
if our voices, once
clear bells, broke,
became gravelled from use.
We sang, didn't we?
I remember trying to hold you up,
or was that you holding me?
The smell of New Orleans,
rotting crayfish, beer,
all the cheap perfumes
of its quadroon history.
In Johnny Matassa's bar that night,
there was a fiddler from Boston playing,
wearing a stove-pipe hat,
the whole place
jumping to his Country Sis and West
Virginia Reel.
I remember him leaning into
the fiddle's curves,
his academic chin, his mouth
open a little.
Rain poured against the windows.
Down streets etched with
the ornate shadows of filigree
we wove our way home,
moved from doorway to doorway
seeking shelter.
The smell of us lingering—
how long after we'd left?
