I can’t get over the wetness of this city. I know that’s a strange thing to fixate on, but I can’t seem to help it. Instead of writing another poem, I just added onto the one I posted yesterday.
Here, water is king. It spills from fractures in the concrete – are the levels rising or the city sinking? Every place my body touches itself is wet. Forming splotches of red rubbed raw on the insides of my thighs like patchwork. The fold in soft below ribs browns with the heat. The palms of my hands are tight like persimmon skins, the dampness of the air inverting me- trying out my insides. The black men ride bicycles with tall handles, years of Louisiana wind left backs crooked and unbendable. Their t-shirts are two shades darker from their beaded chests, the sweat fills tributaries of their faces.
I’m also going to use this opportunity to stick in a few pictures- because this is an amazing city to look at.