A Swamp Tale

A good swamp tale, even in a former swamp
like the city of New Orleans, functions
as currency. The dawn when every cicada
broke through & a thousand husks rattle
loud enough to ripple algae pools. Morning
that alligator climbed a duck blind chasing
no prey proving it could & rappelling like
a paratrooper. Noon & you step through
a spiderweb so persistent with knots it
ensnares worse than a boot suctioned in muddy,
only escape once a salamander licks loose
the linchpins stitch. Evening comes &
mosquitoes plague like blanket, sunset so
bloated with proboscis its orange
musters just a puny smudge. All swamp
stories echo threat. Dying or think you’re
dying. Alligators raining from the sky, caught
in a swarm’s jaws. Gaze-lowered locals
itching to preserve their secret recipes.
Game wardens who know the sound of
a skull cracking better than their children’s
mother’s snore. All swamp stories.

You find her in a clearing near the bayou’s
edge, eye thighs exposed enough that any closer
you’d be able to read her skin’s blueprints.
There isn’t a speck of dirt about her even
though she’s buoyed to the same muck
your ankles wrestle. Music in her head from
stations able to cut through miles of nothing
or something sung by her mama since birth.
You realize you’ve been watching her too long
& also not as long as she’s been watching you.

She’s a wraith or a witch or simply walked
from a life of polyester blouses & too-thin
bank accounts to live where only what she wants
to find her can. Looking at her lights your skin
on fire. The mosquitoes that munch
your lower back back off when her squall gaze
locates your staring. Her grin sinister—two lips
uncurled & glistening like dew or thaw. Thump
of a heart wildly kicking xylophones your ribcage.
It’s an invitation to approach. When she touches
your skin it’s balm on fresh wound. Her teeth
& tongue scoring trapezius, your skin hissing
as she kisses it alive. She is root flowering in
your mouth—desperation to die or live or both.
By the time you notice she has coiled around
you, you panic only for another second of
her touch. And like a revelation as you dive
into her clench, heavy memories—first howl
of tropical approaching from the gulf,
sycamore shade on a lazy morning, loam
of wave pushing as it pulls a continent.

Wet earth stench overpowered by arousal’s liquor
as she claws to steam your upper back, you
ration strength or sense & pinion yourself
to the nearest stable cleat as she vanquishes
the need inside herself. Spent, your thickness
wanes. Waist rinsed in the glory of her
pleasure, you separate & catch breath
before dressing. Numb tingles at the pads
of your fingers as you fidget clasped
the buttons of your shirt. Lungs exhaling
the heaviness of sex, she steadies herself
while lifting one boot zipper & then
another. Her hand rises from your shoulder
& hugs your cheek. “See? Not all bayou
stories end in drowning.” Sometimes they
begin with drowning & end in not drowning.
Hope in the clearing, kindness at the shore.