Captive, Cynthia Lee
I almost have the delusion you are with me,
crossing tuba soaked streets
that leak gator juice into my boots.
We pass by lobsters on leashes
and fried shrimp earrings
and tourists flock to fleur de lys cyborgs.
Voodoo dolls pin themselves
to my phantom braids
going through the Spanish Plaza
and I can smell incense for hours.
Your hand in mine is dusted
with the powdered sugar we used
to finger paint beignets
on our praline-sweet tongues.
We take the backstreets to see vampires
smoking over iron-work filigree,
and steal absinthe kisses by gas lamp.
What I want is across a wall of rain,
sitting among palm trees
and emptied beaches.
I am waiting by tendrils of lightning,
electric voices fallen silent
because you are busy,
to keep me company.