The medicine woman will treat my fever.
She will let the jaundice in my veins
run down my hands
and into the bayou.
She will set me a stew with the heads of crawfish
and fresh vegetables.
We will drive til the land gets shorter
and walk the streets
of a Fisherman’s village. She will take me to the shore
where the water is the color of leather
and doesn’t move,
but sits in a broth of regime.
Across the marsh
men who play the blues,
are always stuck on something.
Riding some high that felt more
honey on fire
than naming their sons.
|2nd Apr 2014✧10:11490 notes|
|2nd Apr 2014✧10:10119 notes|
|31st Mar 2014✧04:0256 notes|
|28th Mar 2014✧18:511,808 notes|
|27th Mar 2014✧15:51539 notes|