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| From murals at San Francisco's Beach Chalet painted by Lucien Labuadt in 1936. |
I’ve ever seen
with her
shiny black hair and sparkling brown eyes
strong thighs in tight jeans
striding back and forth
behind the bar
pouring drinks
for the supplicants
who hung on every word
through her
red lipstick lips
in her
wry honey drawl
wry honey drawl
even telling, perhaps
what she’d cook for dinner:
white beans with a ham hock and
a mess of greens
I loved Wanda at once
but couldn’t fathom how much
till one night she jumped the bar
with a club in her hand
to chase a bad drunk
outside
The sight was so dazzling
I could scarcely comprehend it
She flew over the counter knees tucked
like a gymnast
eyes blazed
like a Fury
arm raised
like a God
For all I could tell
she had holstered the lightning
It was everything I ever wanted to see
in a woman
everything I ever wanted
to be
Another day she rode up
on her 850 Norton
cockless and cocky
in her aviator’s cap
on her way to
a crawfish boil
on Lake Ponchartrain
where she'd show me how to pluck
the delicate white flesh
from the small red tails
and suck the heads
And on the pool table
at Sonny’s
she’d make all her bank shots
pointing to the places she’d hit
before dropping the ball in the pocket
Never choking at the endgame
like me
Challengers would line up
bright quarters on the railing
but Wanda held the table
for as long as she wanted
laying her body on the green felt
squinting one eye as she lined up the shot
sliding the pool cue back and forth
over her fingers
over her fingers
until ‘CRACK!’
She loosed the ball
Wanda was the most magnificent woman
I’d ever seen
and I never understood
why she suffered me gladly
did not find me lacking
all cloaked in my grief
and inadequacy
But we were 20 years old
when I slept on her couch
in the Quarter
and when I went back to California
there were 2,000 miles
between us
and I didn’t return the favor when
a bad marriage
a baby
a car crash
money troubles
came to sleep on her couch
instead
We had a few good phone calls
then a bad call
then nothing
And now I search for Wanda
at nighttime
I scour the web with her name
scanning thousands of images
crammed onto my laptop
and not one of them
is the woman I loved at once
in New Orleans
Not even the one with her face
only 40 years older
sitting on a porch in the Seventh Ward
drinking beer with a friend
in a shabby shift
and scabby legs
after Katrina
After the hurricane destroyed it all
