Burial Grounds

Lightning seared
the pecan tree
when the storm
spent itself out.

There was no mark,
but the leaves
fell in cadence
over the next

few months.
After three years,
the saws came
and carved the
body apart.

No one wanted
to bury them
but me.

Before Being Served

I remember peeling potatoes
in a kitchen dressed
in cow and sunflower.

A watermelon painted itself
onto the wall;
plastic blinds rattled
as I walked by.

Water splashed
though my fingers
when the call came.

You were there,
but I can’t think of
a single conversation
we had or anything
that would warrant
a road trip from
Chicago to Louisiana
in the heat of the summer.

Then ideals
were dreams
to breathe on, in.
I left before dinner
was even served.

Spilling Paint

It was a quarter
for a bag of fish chow,
and you ran to
the car for change.

The bags were
striped like
carnival peanuts,
but the food
smelled like brine.

The water below us
swirled in oranges
and reds.

I pointed out
a flash of white,
and pleased,
began sprinkling
food over the
writhing masses.

You threw your
handful out
all at once,
fodder to
lesser beings.

I don’t remember
the rest of the day.

Just then,
your hand outstretched
and empty,
colors disappearing
beneath us.

Katarina Boudreaux is a writer, musician, composer, tango dancer, and teacher -- a shaper of word, sound, and mind. She returned to New Orleans after circuitous journeying. Her chapbook“Anatomy Lessons” is available from Flutter Press. Her play “Awake at 4:30” is a finalist in the 2016Tennessee Williams Festival. www.katarinaboudreaux.com