Louisiana Song Seamstress

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.