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from CRESCENT CITY BLUES
A woman's name, sexual &
tragic
as Billie Holiday's "Strange
Fruit"
with blood on the leaves.
Blossoms big as cow tongues
strewn across the ground.
Orgasmic mouth-hearts
where bees disappear.
April's rocking wind, these skeins
fall as if self-willed.
Hold one up to your ear
& listen for the lies.
Listen for the skull's plea, white
noise
dogs howl to at midnight.
Noserags & deathnotes
wadded up & thrown on the
ground
in the woman-scented afternoon.
Umbrellas for French Quarter
derelicts playing three-card monte,
the magnolia's rain-awakened
branches mock the dogwood
that kept me on the road for years.
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first appeared in Cincinnati Poetry Review |