Louisiana Song Seamstress
Parcels alive like Japanese lanterns,
purses, dangling starfish chains,
red birds serenading white dawn.
The furious jay, not a sound,
his blue sends me
piecing together December,
a graft upon January,
a slice of February, stitched, the needle
quick threads, crisscrossing black.
Ragged Ann mouths with orange smiles
green as eyes of the gray cat, its silhouette,
like voodoo on snow, sugar and salt
seeps into sills, and wounds.
A ship catches typhoon Iris, heads upstream
to carp or crawdads, fish with secrets,
papery moth wings,
transparent fingernail gill,
tiny bubble breath beads
for the mermaid with shells for ears
hearing every whispered deceit.
Bijou, the parrot's name, squawks overhead, trash talking,
the catfish with whiskers, pearly pink
tipped in black, brushing
the bottom of all that we once knew
before we were scared silly
by the lady with her mole and long division,
dark nines and scary eights, widening orbits
underneath where she sees slashes
of black birds, ellipses in the gray Gulf.