He gave me honey whiskey and sweet wine
at night in New Orleans. I drank moonshine
and it silvered my tongue. I kissed his mouth.
I’d followed the Mississippi down South.
The archipelago of his backbone
rose from the swamp of his skin. I was thrown
by his jerk and thrust, his foreign body;
a streetcar ride through a drowning city.
That morning, I prayed for a rainy day.
The sky was offended. Outside, shady
streets were claimed by bougainvillea,
whose purple papery bracts spilled
out of gardens on thorny vines, cradled
in baskets, or rooted in New Orleans clay.
Copyright © Lily Levinson 2014
Lily Levinson is a recent graduate of Oxford University, where she published in various student magazines. She has been published online in the Patchwork Paper under the name Rachel de Crome.