David W Moore III

Main page for the written works of David W Moore III

 

Magnolia Mound



She is the girl with sea-foam hair.

He is the boy who never aged.

Together they do a soft shuffle,

garnering Krugerrands to the stylings of Elvis Costello.

 

Each night they toss the bones and feathers 

while sipping gris gris tea 

and eating Botox pie.

They read the past,

but it's here now,

never to be fled.

 

On the streetcar named Dubois,

with the smell of electricity

and burnt leaves in the air,

bon temp cheeks brush lightly

as Jelly Roll Morton and Papa Foster look on.

 

In Storyville, in the land beneath the sea,

they passed out blue books:

menus with prices 

published by The Order of the Garter,

Hon suit qui mal y pense,

while the piano played on.


She danced at a quadroon ball, 

a masque, a grand fete,

twirling frantically around Magnolia Mound,

with the bones of saints joining in 

and singing, "Throw me something, mister."


He inhaled and smelled the jazz
drifting over from Preservation Hall;
syncopated and unpredictable 

until that brief epiphany:

blinding light.


Wrought iron sleep walking
to Marie Laveau's tomb
to bring an offering of honey and cinnamon, they ate together, laughing.

 

With bodies buried above ground, 

because we don't want the dead to drown,
they pick at the old St. Joe's brick construction,
slowly crumbling mortar,
but the bricks remain. 


Finally they lie breathlessly under two hundred year old oak trees
osmosing history between slightly parted lips...

 

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