red booth
review
issue 4teen
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Vieux
Carre
Juxtaposed between the Mississippi and the swamp
is the beaded ulcer of the South’s stomach.
Where boys smear crimson gloss on their lips and
the girls slide past their
teeth;
Where I owned the cobblestone and sludge in the
gutters;
Where the river spills life from its sodden womb;
Where I ran through alleys and tasted the bitterness
of adoration;
Where I saw the world through a virgin’s eyes
and
wept at the beauty of the
rusty, dusk dry sky.
Nestled inside New Orleans, a pomegranate tree
whose fruit is
decaying on the branch, spilling nectar from
corroded skin.
Where incense is burned from doorways
and velvet is draped from
balconies;
Where I put my hands in gloves to keep them warm;
Where the blood that’s spilt is washed away by
dawn;
Where names written in cement and bathroom wall
graffiti
are more precious than literature
found on shelves.
Vieux Carre - a desolate wasteland of angels and
masks, of
morbid splendor, left in my mouth the taste of
rotten wine
and empty bottles for my eyes.
- Jessica McMichael
| Jessica is a freelance
writer and assistant editor at the Pebble Lake Review. Her writing
credits include poetry and short stories in The Dateline, The Bayou
Review, Navigator and elsewhere. |
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