Pontchartrain
(or Okawata to the Choctaw)
I.
Canal to Rampart Street past
Church’s Chicken
over the Industrial Canal into the
Lower Nine
to Holy Cross to St. Barnard’s.
This is not the tourist’s geography
no Bourbon St. or Rue Royal
no oysters at Antoine’s
but empty nail salons and check
cashing shops
deserted Chevron’s and juke joints
named Club Harmann
We are the two headed city
the living covering the dead
the dead hovering the living
always dying
always living
always shit
always jasmine
On the sightseer’s map
there are no mildewed American flags
hung in Child Development
Centers
for Positive Beginnings,
rancid footballs from the Zulu Krew
only frat boys screaming for naked
breasts.
In the Lower Nine, you won’t find
Jesus,
won’t find George W or Nagin,
won’t find FEMA,
or Moses,
or Noah,
no Jesus,
but his mother Mary
dots deserted lawns.
She stands
empty palms
up
staring at her sisters across the
street.
You won’t find Jesus
but you will find a chorus of
virgins,
mothers of God.
Hail Mary full of grace
where is your son?
This is the two headed city
the living covering the dead
the dead hover the living
always living
always dying
always jasmine
always shit
II.
Four months before her mouth
swallows the city,
I drive across Lake Pontchartrain at
5 am
suspended like a raven in the dark
I leave behind fried pickles in the
Irish Channel,
muffalattas and cokes for breakfast,
dancing
at Café Negril
and a Spanish balcony on Rampart
Street .
It will be good to ride into
Pontchartrain’s mouth
again. The bridge turns
to Mississippi and I watch the sun
burn away the black morning
New Orleans to my back.
Back in Chicago ,
August brings thirsty nights and
longing
for Highway 90
for Gulfport , Long Beach , Pass
Christian,
Waveland.
August brings Katrina.
Ponchartrain opens herself like a
thousand birth waters.
Ponchartrain covers my bridge with
her dark slick mouth.
And all my dreams become prayers.
III.
Oshun Yemonja Oya
Reach beyond your many breaths
Beyond ashes and dust
Touch your children
In this sacred place
We will pour honey in your mouths
Oshun Yemonja Oya
Protect the dead and the living
Reveal the pearl beneath the moss
Fill this city with egg and seed
We will pour honey in your mouths.
We are swirling black bodies rising
Land of afterbirth and loas
of clicking tongues
and crescent moonwalk rising
Oya Yemonja Oshun
Three sisters of the storm
Talk to Jesus
Tell him his mothers live here
Tell him his sisters sleep here
between the cities of the dead
and Marginey
between Metarie
and Slidell
between Biloxi
and Waveland
Tell him you are waiting
in the salted
womanwidewaters
of Okwata.
New Orleans Chant
(for Ed Bradley)
you creole
you crazy
carry a razor in your garter
you Shango and blue
you feed women tomatoes
with salt in the dark you Jelly Roll
and Blue Bland you Wynton and
Brandford
Papa Ellis too
you like gumbo for Christmas
grits and oysters for breakfast
chicory in the coffee
butter on the biscuit
you conked
you waved
you nappy all over
got a gold tooth got a
diamond
in your ear
you Yoruba and neckbones
pressed handkerchief in the pocket
you old
you wingtipped
you Fats Domino
you can skin a live catfish
you smell of Tuxedo Pomade
you chew on a toothpick
you a slow mannish whisper
in married gal’s ear
you black as black
you Neville’s falsetto
you yellow
you new
you back
you bone
you frazzled tail rooster
you preacher you teacher
you sacred
dirty profane
you sweet tea in mason jars
you husband and buttermilk sweet
backdoor man
you the moaning in church you bass
at the altar
you latin mass incense Legba riding
his horse
you be
Damballah
on the cross.
