i am a beautiful and fucking ugly thing

new orleans chasing butterflies

here, a mouth opens, inserting a city
and drowns the less faithful
a year where the hips are the slopes of violins
and the rivers of hair is felt like rain
and naked skin recalls only the night of 1984
where the Creoles sigh wistfully and
the musicians are dusty memories, waiting for
Jesus to descend into their broken fingers and
bring back their faith.