Houma, LA Sophia Ivey

Houma, LA Sophia Ivey

Red beans & rice Buttered bread A chickens’ breasts.

A white plate An hour difference, Schedules set For central time, Houses on stilts.

Thick beads Of sweat Soft gray Hats And dew On my second father’s whiskey glass.

Kids with full cheeks Bellowing cackles And dads with permanent sleeves That kiss Their son’s peach-blonde curls,

And a papa who chases him

Around the white Table clothes.

Salt thrown over the shoulder. Black strays under trailers. Tarot cards read under crosses. And a steel clothes hanger.

Pink tile bathrooms No showerheads, Blinds, Or carpet.

Grass that grows Too thick, A sky howling In smoldering orange And whimpering In a pastel pale pink.

A house on the west side Of Houma Captures these echoes And that’s why, My second mother says, The floorboards creak–Because they are muttering Our secrets and jokes and joys To one another.