Tricky, tricky
jug full of city
spilt. I’ve abandoned
your brand
of patience, haven’t a care
what’s mirage
or what’s oasis.
I bloat with hydration,
sober for the season,
for the march song repeated
till the horns
distort to moans.
Trodden bead asterisms
breed brief romance
till they go verdigris
with the street grease
at a finite hour,
like the gown back to rags.
What deal was made
and with what fairy godmother,
her billows dragging
trails of golden ants?
I raise an empty glass
to isolation, to feeling
better-than, to the war
of waste underwritten
by the sympathy
of the bourgeoisie,
to the maternal care
the drunk girl
gives to the drunker
who’s not dressed
for the weather,
who falters
in the fiberglass mist,
to the caviling rain that spares
my skin and hair,
to Lent’s plum shadow,
to money made, to the costumed
clown pastry with its Christ-child
punchline.
Shrill cries fester skywards.
Remember to thank
the moon,
who receives them naturally
as wolf bays, naked and cool,
as if after a bath.
Howl until you’re hollow.
I’ll whisper in the medicine,
take you to mass tomorrow,
where, since it’s Carnival,
all gluttony is forgiven,
and you can teach your body
to sleep again.
Caroline Rowe (née Zimmer) is a Pushcart Prize nominated poet whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including The Raw Art Review, Harbinger Asylum, Cathexis Northwest, and The Jabberwock Review, where she was nominated for the Nancy D. Hargrove Editor’s Prize. She has also been anthologized in The Maple Leaf Rag (Portals Press). Her debut chapbook, God’s Favorite Redhead, is forthcoming from Lucky Bean Press. She is a lifelong resident of the French Quarter in New Orleans.
