Spring in South Louisiana

by
Barry Dunlap


(Part 1)

I wouldn't have noticed
the boats and their folly
if not for the separation.
But the drawbridge cracked, opening
its mouth to passage, so I yanked
my key and nudged the door
closed with my hip.  Wandering
past a Harley roadster, wedged
on its stand, I climbed onto the
support rail and overlooked the river.
Boats full of half-drunk smiles
split the seam, leaving white
trails behind.  I knew I could hit
the water below me with a curdy wad
of spit, but instead I thrusted
a toad-shaped rock with my shoe.
Off this section that shades
the Tchefuncte, it sprawled, belly
exposed, until it plopped into
one of the broken boat waves.

(Part 2)

"We love the cancer.  It makes
us sexy."  That's what I imagine
the girls saying as they slap
themselves with clear
oil, prepping to be sautéed
in the afternoon glare.
This modern cartography is
strenuous: their turning,
pulling, stretching--to mark
each territory; leaving shiny pale
boundaries wrapped like bands
around tight flesh.


(Part 3)

My relatives crowd against
the table as two of the men expose
the steaming treasure; spreading
the heap over headlines.  The crusty pile
is quite artistic: red like tomato
ketchup with whiskers and eyes,
and yellows standing in contrast
like cylindrical rows of smiling
teeth. The potatoes sulk in blandness.
As each stroke of color is peeled
back, sauced, and sucked, the
image fades.  A few scattered
heads look from the ground as the
canvass is rolled endlong and smushed
into the gray can beside the garage.