New Orleans draped me in its courage and I rose to meet it with my feet splayed hunger and wide-eyed rumble steps. I stepped, angling and circumscribed – turning sheets into towering stone- brick-layered love boxes, hurricane-proof iron work, tumble-rocked ornamentalism. New Orleans spilled onto the pavement and I paved my tongue with the taste of creole kiss-creation. I curled into the mud of the Mississippi and hurtled my tiny shatter-box of a soul through the river-bones of my body. My body, sheltering and homely, hunger-hollowed and wild, found its ancient eyes. Found its youthful resonance. Found my adventure calves, my dreamboat-caught breaths, my sun-scraped eyelashes. Coffee stained throat and cajun dust, I kept wandering through a city that hums in saxophone trills, that remembers the drips and drops of haunted shadows. A city that sings in the swamps and swelters in the shade. A city that knows itself. A city that shares itself. A city steeped in itself. Deeply aware, self-referential and perfectly frozen in the perpetuation of time. Rich in love, doused in art,
Rich in love, doused in creation, dipped in warm praline-perfection. This city is a beating heart still alive. This city is a streetcar named desire. Full-bodied and blood-red. Color-grazed and pastel-parlor-prescience. This city is something still staring. Something still singing.
And delicate hand holds – firmly placed kisses, arched back wind-frames. Angled love with this love of mine I still want to hear. Want to listen to. Prayerful hearts aching across the horizon. Sinking into the river. Dancing across the ferry. Arms open wide and draped in freedom. Bottomless kisses. Wilderness promises. Rumbled rants raging at the resistance of reason. All I am, all I am, all I am loves you. Loves this moment lingered with heavy sighs and precious air.
I remember now that my life is a praise song to the sacred. When I saw the Mississippi river I knew it was she that spluttered up this city. Full of secrets and scattered sun dust. I remembered what it felt like to have the spirit kiss your neck gently on a Sunday morning… tilt your head back and let our star shine on the curvature of your face. I remembered these and I remembered light.
Love to New Orleans, love to you, love to hope still blaring from a saxophone.