Francine
Why
do you
cry? do you
need me to sing
you a lullaby? you
seem frightened. who s-
cared you? was it the frail br-
own man that sits on the side of
the street in the French Quarters, fold-
ing his boney arms together as his striped
robe drapes over his wrists? Did his shaved he-
ad covered in snakeskin scarves startle you? Did his
dolls—lifeless little scraps of cloth in the form of men stu-
ffed with mounds of cotton for organs—look like the poor little
children on the street? did it hurt you when he drove a needle,so
thin and sharp, into one of their hearts, causing a little girl like you
to fall onto her cold, wooden floor and breath in its scent for the last ti-
me? Is that why you chose to cry? why your tears have been pouring on
us, mixing in with the harsh blow of your unsteady breath, creating this
hurricane that has startled our city? our citizens are leaving, francine.
evacuating their homes out of fear that you might be like your sister,
even though, for me, that’s hard to believe. but i might be naive.y-
ou might cry—no, weep—as hard as she did, knocking down
brick foundations, blowing away years of cherished patrim-
ony with just a cough. You might cause the trees to br-
eak with just a sneeze. You might cause the thunder
to crack with every whine and wail you let
slip out of your tiny, thin lips. You’ve
already soaked up this city with
your long, drenched locs that
have been tapping my win-
dow furiously. Please
don’t get any
worse.
The Food Aisle
The craisin-covered sun
keeps the crows awake.
The mildewy grass
leans downward onto its plate of soil.
The starchy amalgamate of gray cement
sits in the stomached concrete.
The mailbox holds
another meal.
The potatoes belch on their sofas
waiting to die.
Chocolate squares, taco shells,
and pizza slices lie
in the intestines that work in the potato-chip-skinned men
that own these homes made of rye.
Hopefully, this aisle finds another way to survive.
