Caleb
Eliza Park, New Orleans, 1838 He dresses me, buries his face in my hair. I grab his arm, reach for my shawl, pull him out to the courtyard. In the oil lamp’s flickering rim, I watch the green-leafed yucca rattle its swords. Cannons are firing the curfew. I stay him with a touch, rip a button from his waistcoat, hold it in my mouth to still my teeth.