6.2.2023 - Firsts

6.2.2023
Firsts

You said you came from Lousianna,
That was so exotic in my suburban hell.
I wanted to see the places you came from,
Tour the person you were,
Before you were cast on the barren shores,
Next to our local mall,
Where we sat on my bed.
You tasted of distant longings.
For years I associated the flavor of your lips,
With the images of Mardi Gras,
I read about in books.
I imagined you dancing in the Quarter,
Singing along in a crowded club,
Playing the drums and laughing.
I still imagine you.
You are the mirage of my youth.
The girl I loved who barely saw me.
Who cast me aside for the pretty girl,
With wild hair and dark eyes.
When do I stop believing,
That one day I will exist,
In the same spaces where you exist?
The mythical warm autumn day,
That we rediscover shared pleasures,
The delights that to me were formative,
And to you was just another Tuesday?
When will I grow out of that?
I’ve been to Houma since then.
The streets looked nothing like you.
The people had shuttered eyes,
And suspicious natures.
In my mind you are warm.
You are soft and sweet,
Your breath caught in my throat,
Your raven hair framed my face.
And I could drink you forever,
Without needing to come up for air.
On the phone after her funeral,
You spoke of her,
“She taught me what love is,”
You brokenly told the howling in my mind.
You didn’t hear my heart break a second time.
I saw how different a memory can be.
Our childhood surrounded by the same figures,
Going to the same schools,
Listening to the same music,
Yet painted in an entirely different pallet.
What I draw in light hid inside my shadow,
That was barely in your frame at all.
First cuts leave the deepest scars,
That no one sees,
But I trace them in the moonlight,
And think of bayous and magic.