LAURA WILL NOT EAT
filé gumbo, no,
but she watches me sip julep in the courtyard bar.
It may be she is full already from the odors of
mushrooms and wine floating out of kitchen
doorways. But not for anything will she carry a
frozen daiquiri in a plastic cup down Duval street.
Not for anything will she break so much as a
beignet, spatter its sugar across her silk. Tonight
we will visit the cities of the dead again. If there
we come across a sacrifice, some torn heap of
bright feathers, then maybe she dips one finger
into the blood. Maybe it stings her tongue like wet
cayenne. For now she refuses the fish in its
blackened mask of spices. She turns her face
away. She drinks pink bougainvillaea blowing in
from the square.
Copyright © 1995 by AB Emrys
FAMOUS DIRECTORS film the poems of
William Carlos Williams Stephen King's Red
Wheelbarrow: The camera zooms in tight on the
wet bucket of a bright red wheelbarrow. Drops of
water on it look like drops of blood. The
wheelbarrow is vibrating, rocking. Suddenly it
plunges downhill with the camera right behind it.
The wheelbarrow seems to pull us along. White
fluffy objects blip in and out too fast to see
clearly. (Soundtrack: panting, loud squawks of
large chickens.) There is a tremendous sense of
urgency, as if everything depends on this
Reprinted with permission from Sun Dog
Copyright © 1992 by AB Emrys