Dede Wilson


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.