New Orleans Poem for James D. Newman

NEW ORLEANS POEM FOR JAMES D. NEWMAN


When she comes, when she comes running
through the door of the brick kitchen,
I whisper to her of night and it is night,
after the flood, walking streets, exhaustion, strange
fever, some street thing rushes by, screaming,
after the flood,
after the flood waters recede,
candles blaze in the muddy cathedral,
candles white as a murmur,
and the priest in his muddy robe,
and the priest makes the sign of the doublecross,
in the muddy cathedral,
white flowers on the woman table,
flowers white as a murmur, eyes move,
and the priest in his muddy robe, muddy sandals,
and the priest makes the sign of the doublecross,
pours red wine on the skulls on the woman table,
eyes move in the muddy cathedral,
eyes move,
white flowers as white as a murmur,
immense bed, the silver rain, the virgin
kneels down, presses against the shadows,
protesting the dark now known,
after the flood waters recede, strange fever,
the priest makes the sign of the doublecross.

The perfume of her hair lingers on the pillow case.
The harpsicord, a cool breeze on the boy's hot face.


Harvey Goldner




Harvey Goldner: "When I was a child, my lesbian
aunt, Suzanne, would spend a week or so every summer
at my family's vacation home on Lake Wenatchee, here
in Washington State. This was before the era of
motorcycle helmets, and Suzanne would arrive on her
blue Bugatti, her red hair streaming, flaming. While
tossing back straight shots of my father's precious
scotch, she would mesmerize my twin brother Phil and
me by reading aloud her favorite poets, chiefly
Elizabeth Bishop. Eventually, my brother Phil became
an alcoholic & was killed in a motorcycle accident,
and I began writing poems."