DAY OF THE DEAD, NEW ORLEANS Poem by Katie Donovan

for Lar Cassidy

You would have loved one last night
of the syncopated "Funky Butt",
with Big Al rolling
his great, luscious voice
out of the massive black mountain
of his chest,
the boys lifting their silver trumpets,
the flush in their cheeks
going right up to their thinning hair,
while the tomcat on the piano
sends his hands a-jitter
for the "Charleston Rag",
and the sweet molasses drummer
drops his long lashes
and shimmies his cymbal.

All the vaults in the graveyard
are rollicking their brollies
with the beat and swish,
twirl and flourish;
in the voodoo haunt on Bourbon Street,
the obeah woman's hair stands up
with the tongues of serpents,
the clay ladies open their legs
and little heads peek out; even Christ on his crucifix
has all the time in the world
for dixie.

My tears roll
when I think of the freezing day
we tried to warm
with our drums and poetry,
when we laid you down,
and carried your jazzy hat away.

In this city
where your shadow
takes a closer walk
grief brims
like the upside down grin
of the Mississippi
with its sad, booming boats,
and I think of you as a great craft
powering down the current.

until your light failed
and you ran aground,
and we stood on the shore
in our Mardi Gras masks,
watching you sink,
wringing our hands;

and in your big marshmallow
and sweet potato voice you said:
"Laissez le bon temps rouler,
laissez le bon temps rouler.'