Wanda

From murals at San Francisco's Beach Chalet painted by Lucien Labuadt in 1936.

Wanda was the most magnificent woman

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

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

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