Member Poem

Backstreet Boy

 

“Cutting off a mule’s ears doesn’t make it 

a horse.”--Creole proverb.

 

Found myself one Saturday

late summer prowling

the back alleys of New Orleans;

besotted, curious, dazed,

searching out one of those Haitian Creole

Voodoo shops with the petrified frogs

and rooster heads nailed over the door;

 

blood red curtains drawn, inside

things dimly candle-lit, with large earthen jars

lined up on dusty shelves, a refuge

for myth, magic, and primitive religiosity, 

a perfect place to find healing incantations,

black genies in silver whaling lamps,

kidnapped shamanic herbs,

animal skulls & skins,

snake scale green tea--

 

moving, twitching, overly-animated,

nervous & clumsy, through narrow aisles

of restoration potions and enchanted

dried flowers, leaves, and roots,

 

my nostrils assaulted by odors

of rich damp soil,

of rot, of moss, of pitch, of creosote, 

of honey mixed with whiskey;

 

and in tall hand-made colonial cabinets

there were well-honed straight razors,

long skinning knives,

aboriginal archery artifacts,

stone arrowheads, bone & antler daggers,

witch doctor beads & face paint,

demonic tarnished gold coins,

shrunken heads with sewn-up eyes, 

silver figurines of wolves, panther, bear,

pythons, alligators, & wild boars;

with smeared dirty jars holding dead snakes,

copperheads, cottonmouths, thick rattlesnakes,

even brilliantly colored coral snakes--

a purposeful exclusion of all softness,

everything hard-edged, lethal, poisonous,

macabre & nightmarish--

 

until I chanced onto an area by a small window

that was only partially covered by a tattered

holy potato gunny-sack, allowing some sunlight

to penetrate the swarmy gloomy sanctum,

greeted by some small shelves covered

with bright colored paper, littered

with cans of Cajun spices,

provincial cook books, and

thick worn-edged volumes

of Cajun-Creole mythology.

 

From the shadows suddenly

a tall black woman in a turban,

wearing scarlet robes, appeared,

her dark eyes flashing,

and through perfect white teeth

she spoke first in Cajun French

and then in broken English, 

asking me what I might be searching for.

 

Catching my breath I stammered

and confessed my impetuosity,

my gnawing curiosity,

and my sudden need to find egress.

 

Smiling, she pointed a long bejeweled finger

at the exit, a large metal door covered

in scrubbed bronze rivets. I noticed

the EX was burned out on the sign,

leaving only IT to make my escape through;

which I did hastily, then standing outside

gulping good Gulf air.

 

After a few calming minutes,

I revamped my courage

and went back into the shop,

engaging that Cajun girl

in intense conversation,

 

asking her about my chronic insomnia,

hallucinations, and the fact

that I habitually saw a demon’s

red-coal eyes in the moonlit 

reflection of my own face

much too often.

 

 

Glenn Buttkus