We met on the bayou:-
Two skiffs folding into Calypso’s musty grove,
Flirting behind silvery flocks of Spanish moss,
Which hung from cypress limbs
like frayed Chantilly shawls.
In all, they concealed the smoking shack,
if we remembered our destination a whit.
On Calypso’s black waters, we ached to swim,
Pendant droplets merging and diverging,
Free of the wisdom willing us to shore; Heedless
of the ruthlessness lurking in the mist.
In your hands, I reckoned myself safe,
A suckling happily cradled while awake;
Happy, indeed, to be locked in focus,
Yet aware there could be no exodus,
No move of mine, failing yours.
And with a calm bayou breeze snaking ’round us,
Those ocular pens exposed a withering part.
One too lovely for any label, any cage;
One struggling within you. Begging, begging
Sweet as a four-foot gator in a breadline,
And as ardently of me, as of earlier tides.
Know there’s no pacifying it this time.
Blame Calypso’s intoxicating warmth — itself
suffused with the humid love of untold years;
Or blame this sluggish, forgetful mind,
Known to have forgotten your pull,
with my usual refusal to yield.
But do forgive me . . .
And forgive me good.
I’m no striped eel for you to fear my sting,
Merely a lily who’s outgrown Lafourche’s grip,
One to be found more delicate with age, if