Daughter of New Orleans
She took me into her arms,
all thick smoke and lightening
quick jazz.
I said I never did this before,
walked the streets of a vixen,
while holding my mother’s hand.
From doorways, windows too,
women beckoned “Adieu, adieu,”
and I admired their fishnet
clad legs and bare too
as I did their obvious delight
of laughing during the day
the way they did at night.
Catfish crawled down my throat
crazy lazy in the afternoon.
Cockroaches big as
silver spoons
flew through the air,
across the moon,
and we followed their parted path
which led us to cemeteries,
bare white stone,
for all the final resting place,
for many their first home.
Somewhere north, my home stood,
suburban and beautiful white washed wood,
but forgotten and impossible to see
from where I stood
on this seductive woman’s streets.
Years later I spoke
with people who'd left
and still bore the almost fatal gash
imprinted across something
more important than flesh.
“I went,” one said,
“just to visit, to see. But that woman…
She got inside of me.
I’ve been down to the bayou--
I drank my whiskey straight--
I took in a ferry ride
across a wide-open space.
Got drunk on wine,
smoked hashish strong,
but nothing got into me more
than that mad siren’s song.”
Oh to be loved like that!
Past iron clad gates
that coiled in snakish dance,
past artists who painted portraits--
Mona Lisa with your smile,
stenciled glorious gardens
all for a couple of bucks
or even just some afternoon jive.
In the cobblestone streets,
where the feeble tripped and fell,
my mother wore gardenia fresh perfume,
and from her beauty bloomed
a carnal sensuality I saw but did not see.
“When are you returning,” my father asked?
Soon…
In the old wax museum
I stared at a brown skinned little girl,
a slave in her world
frozen forever in ours,
wide eyed and running
from Madam Lalaurie’s
leather raw hide.
Tale has it the child,
couldn’t take no more,
and flung her body off
the mansion’s high stucco walls.
In the evenings I sat cross-legged and sore
but beaming and happy upon
an old wooden floor.
Men ancient like fossilized bugs,
but oh so alive,
did sing and howl,
strum and strut
their agile reed-thin frames
because Oh baby, baby
my bad ol’ lady
is doing her voodoo again….
In the morning we woke
in the small hotel room.
I bathed in a large white tub.
My mother applied more perfume.
Free continental breakfast
served promptly at eight:
one dried out sweet roll,
one gallon of Tang.
I mixed it strong,
loving it sweet and grainy,
not an once of vitamin C--
but oh so Tangy!
My mother stood in the bathroom
and made up her hair.
She wore it redder then
and down behind her ears.
We did it better then,
something was lost throughout the years.
And the light moved--
rapid quake of fire bright--
(Beautiful! Beautiful!)
across my childhood skin,
past the curtains parting
like a damsel's legs!
I stood in the center of the room
seeping in the magic,
waiting for my own precious bottle
of Eau de Perfume
and to be loved like this whore
named New Orleans
decadent devil,
heroine of my dreams!
“I came,” he said,
“just to visit, just to see,
to eat raw fish and oysters,
to drink wine by the sea.
I wanted to run my hands
across your satin gown,
I wanted to touch your skin--
But you….
You messed me up something good.
From my pores ebbed the sent of you.
I lost sight of my world for yours.
Didn’t know if I was coming.
Didn’t know from where I’d gone.
Didn’t know I had so many desires
or that they burned so strong.
The only thing I knew
was I had to get away from you.”
Ah, to be loved like that…
And I was.
© Coleen T. Houlihan
She took me into her arms,
all thick smoke and lightening
quick jazz.
I said I never did this before,
walked the streets of a vixen,
while holding my mother’s hand.
From doorways, windows too,
women beckoned “Adieu, adieu,”
and I admired their fishnet
clad legs and bare too
as I did their obvious delight
of laughing during the day
the way they did at night.
Catfish crawled down my throat
crazy lazy in the afternoon.
Cockroaches big as
silver spoons
flew through the air,
across the moon,
and we followed their parted path
which led us to cemeteries,
bare white stone,
for all the final resting place,
for many their first home.
Somewhere north, my home stood,
suburban and beautiful white washed wood,
but forgotten and impossible to see
from where I stood
on this seductive woman’s streets.
Years later I spoke
with people who'd left
and still bore the almost fatal gash
imprinted across something
more important than flesh.
“I went,” one said,
“just to visit, to see. But that woman…
She got inside of me.
I’ve been down to the bayou--
I drank my whiskey straight--
I took in a ferry ride
across a wide-open space.
Got drunk on wine,
smoked hashish strong,
but nothing got into me more
than that mad siren’s song.”
Oh to be loved like that!
Past iron clad gates
that coiled in snakish dance,
past artists who painted portraits--
Mona Lisa with your smile,
stenciled glorious gardens
all for a couple of bucks
or even just some afternoon jive.
In the cobblestone streets,
where the feeble tripped and fell,
my mother wore gardenia fresh perfume,
and from her beauty bloomed
a carnal sensuality I saw but did not see.
“When are you returning,” my father asked?
Soon…
In the old wax museum
I stared at a brown skinned little girl,
a slave in her world
frozen forever in ours,
wide eyed and running
from Madam Lalaurie’s
leather raw hide.
Tale has it the child,
couldn’t take no more,
and flung her body off
the mansion’s high stucco walls.
In the evenings I sat cross-legged and sore
but beaming and happy upon
an old wooden floor.
Men ancient like fossilized bugs,
but oh so alive,
did sing and howl,
strum and strut
their agile reed-thin frames
because Oh baby, baby
my bad ol’ lady
is doing her voodoo again….
In the morning we woke
in the small hotel room.
I bathed in a large white tub.
My mother applied more perfume.
Free continental breakfast
served promptly at eight:
one dried out sweet roll,
one gallon of Tang.
I mixed it strong,
loving it sweet and grainy,
not an once of vitamin C--
but oh so Tangy!
My mother stood in the bathroom
and made up her hair.
She wore it redder then
and down behind her ears.
We did it better then,
something was lost throughout the years.
And the light moved--
rapid quake of fire bright--
(Beautiful! Beautiful!)
across my childhood skin,
past the curtains parting
like a damsel's legs!
I stood in the center of the room
seeping in the magic,
waiting for my own precious bottle
of Eau de Perfume
and to be loved like this whore
named New Orleans
decadent devil,
heroine of my dreams!
“I came,” he said,
“just to visit, just to see,
to eat raw fish and oysters,
to drink wine by the sea.
I wanted to run my hands
across your satin gown,
I wanted to touch your skin--
But you….
You messed me up something good.
From my pores ebbed the sent of you.
I lost sight of my world for yours.
Didn’t know if I was coming.
Didn’t know from where I’d gone.
Didn’t know I had so many desires
or that they burned so strong.
The only thing I knew
was I had to get away from you.”
Ah, to be loved like that…
And I was.
© Coleen T. Houlihan