He told me of how she had
awakened him in the 4 a.m. mist.
Eyes bloodshot, the turquoise clouded with her cigarette smoke.
4 a.m. and already half a pack down.
Staring at their postcards from New Orleans,
how the ghosts of the Bayou Bienvenue rose from
the wetland, clammed at her arms.
The shriveled cypress trunks in the water,
Please come with us.
She held on to the broken hands,
in her fresh sunflower frock.
She always thought I’d like her
more in her death dress.