Tag: Guest-edited by Pia Ehrhardt
The dog had first appeared to Boone one night as he sat in what remained of his living room, staring at the tarp that hung in place of what used to be his living room wall.
Forget some call love / Bedside grammar: // The body rules / And it’s a trick
We’ll never make it in time: you’re twelve, / riding west to see a corpse in a flood, / I’m your grandson at forty-two, riding east // to see my city’s flooded remains.
There is the talk of friends, uncles / disappeared, impossible to translate / because in English one disappears, // is not disappeared.
as part of our New Orleans Special Issue.
The Dead Man
by Adam Gnuse
There wasn’t all too much left of the dead man besides the bones and what must have been his belt buckle. His skull was still intact, but one of his arms was broken and he was missing most of his fingers and toes. He lay underneath one of the large, draping branches of the trees surrounding the sandpit, right outside the clearing we used. Even with the corpse lying in the shadows, it was a perfect hangout; on the river side of the levee, in the batture by the water’s edge, we were free from any adults trying to assert their authority over us. Besides, we had grown to like the dead man and had begun to treat him like he was one of us. We avoided pissing on him and sometimes, we would even pretend to hold conversations with him. We would tell him jokes, ask if he “boned” any girls lately, or maybe just pass him a joe.
Once, after a few hits and beers, a girl and I were …
Everything floats down to this place, the very end of Bayou St. John where Delia sits, her feet dangling just above the tepid water.
_The following poetry was written by Lusher Charter School students of New Orleans. _
**His Only Begotten Rat**
_by Taylor Yarbrough_
In the busy city, spectators pass
and laugh lazily at three men
hanging from a light post: a clean sport
to see whose palms will burn first.
I stand in the middle under the man
with trembling feet: the others struggle
to keep the crowd entertained while
maggots feed on a brown rat nearby.
With his head hanging
and muscles pounding, he must win.
A song will make time move quicker:
_Eli Eli lema sabachthani? Eli Eli lema…_
His lungs are full like the dumpster trucks
that pass in front of the site, drowning
out the noisy crowd and leaving a thick haze:
I stand still, head cocked back, eyes on his.
An onlooker yanks a naked branch
from a sidewalk tree
and pokes the hangman in his ribs:
my mouth drops, his clear insides pour
into my wide open throat.
Maggots swarm around my feet.
A street sweeper kicks the rat to the side
and angrily whispers to me “Go home.”
_by Cora Parsons_
The car smells of dog breath and dry leather.
Heat pours in through …