fourteenth attempt at going home

in the cities of the dead, trumpets flare.

this is a second line for alluvial plains, but

the Lyft driver believes the climate’s been getting

one degree warmer every year basically forever.

I want to know who put this trash in my city.

closure is being certain there is nothing to resurrect,

which is maybe an unholy realization to have

on Easter, but it would be worse if I lied to you.

the night before, I took myself out, I ordered the

fanciest cocktail, I mopped up the roux in my bowl

with French bread. drunk tourists are my least

favorite kind. I remember my nights

full of rum on an island, the feeling

of land slipping away. the Superdome

should be a national monument because the

air jammed in my throat the first moment I

saw it. if you picture people trying to sleep all

lined up like that, it makes you think of something

else. I remember my mother telling me how

graveyards are constructed here, every

body in an aboveground box, so water won’t

loosen the bones and worry them out of the loam.

I’ve seen it more than once now, plus a lone

motorcycle weaving around the tombs.

how does it feel to be a ruinous topography.

if you don’t believe me when I tell you where

I’m from I’ll give you one star. no, I’ll give you

an unlit sky, no illuminated guide. I can’t stop

writing about a place that no longer exists,

whose light I still use for navigation. after every crescent

city parade there’s a flock of crêpe paper seagulls

trying to escape gravity, and I can imagine worse

miracles to tell my future selves.