Louisiana, Route 82
Even the vowels
drip between consonants
the way that hammocks are slung between trees
and the Spanish moss, antique lace in the air,
makes a breeding ground
of the breeze.
Oh how I long to go back to that highway
that slips and slithers
between the snakes and the egrets
in the fecund hollows of the Louisiana Bayou,
where everything is dripping;
the air over my skin in muggy hot puddles,
dripping,
the blood of the armadillo into the slits of the split concrete roadway
dripping,
the grease between my fingers off a fried shrimp po' boy
and the water off those nets
that dragged those clenching lumps of sea flesh in.
And I did see them,
& I did smell them,
coming in off the gulf
before I took them into my belly
& it felt close to tonguing the ocean herself
here, with my view of the creamy peach sunset
off this highway
where
even the vowels
drip between consonants
the way that hammocks are slung between trees
and the Spanish moss, antique lace in the air,
makes a breeding ground
of the breeze.
I was caught—
stuck in traffic,
waiting for the little ferry to bring me across the delta,
but I didn't mind.
Trapped with me and my imagination
were a dozen oiled up Southern boys
draggin' home after a long day working those muscles in the sun.
Tight little asses all squeezed up into their jeans,
long legs sloping out of the cabs & into the beds of their 4X4's—
but oh how those tight little asses
would skin me alive
if only they knew how this half dyke can fantasize
about all their little holes they may not know
could sink their fishing poles—
or about bending 'em over one knee and spanking 'em
with one of those Louisiana license plates.
"Sportsman's Paradise"—
umm hmmm.
Not cause I want to hurt 'em
I just want to hear 'em squeal—just a little
as they discover they like a touch of pain
where they don't think it's Christian.
Cause there's nothing like a no trespassing sign
that makes me want to crawl under,
& nothing like a shaking Baptist
that makes me want to inch up a little on hell—
especially if its as hot as it is here
on Louisiana Rte 82
where
even the vowels
drip between consonants
the way that hammocks are slung between trees
and the Spanish moss, antique lace in the air,
makes a breeding ground
of the breeze.
"Do know Jesus loves you?"
The fat red faced man comes up to me while the grease still fills the cracks in my lips.
His voice strung with the hum of one who believes
he's got the god given white right to preach.
"Do you know Jesus loves you?"
I smile and say "Well, I figured he did."
But I really want to ask him
‘Does your Jesus know I like to chow box,
I spell Amerikkka with 3 K's
& worship plenty of other deities depending on my mood, and my pain.
But there's no where to hide in this one motel town
& I can't afford to let my motorcycle burn like a cross in the night—
so I concentrate on the possibility of god.
He's joined by three others who encircle the gingham-spread table where I eat alone.
Suddenly I'm standing as they grasp my shoulders in a sweaty circle of prayer
"Oh father who art in Heaven. . ."
but the mumbling incantations
accidentally evoke my stormy gods
that sink pleasure into my veins,
anesthetizing my fear of being discovered.
The chanting quickens and vibrates in stereo
plucking the pores at the back of my neck
vibrating vibrating vibrating
‘til I'm shot through with cloud free skies
and boogieing volcanoes screaming erupting screaming erupting
screaming erupting
HALELUJAH
I quake and quake
& dissolve
into the arms of my saviors.
Weeping intimate sweltering flesh
sunk in the salty fried air
saturating the fibers I haven't washed in days.
I will be wearing the stench of celestial love
in the morning
as I drag ass out of this town
on Louisiana Rte 82
where
even the vowels
drip between consonants
the way that hammocks are slung between trees
and the Spanish moss, antique lace in the air,
makes a breeding ground
of the breeze.
Copyright © Samantha Barrow
All rights reserved.
Back to the Poetry & Writings index page.