She tossed his bones and ashes to the Gulf
where in another life they would appear
mortared with the inevitable oil,
and rode home in the taxicab quiet,
where Juan already waiting at the gate
followed her into the courtyard, silent
until she gathered him with her embrace,
and they talked late in the afternoon light,
dined at Antoine’s, where she told of the death
of Roberto only she had witnessed.
Roberto had purchased the house for her.
She would not need to return to Athens,
she could wait till she tired of New Orleans
and go home for a visit, which she would,
she assured Juan before the night ended
kissing goodbye, seeing him to the gate,
watching him walk off to be with Adore.
Adore woke when he slid into her bed.
Juan’s tongue traced, lips to toes, her body’s length.
Who is not glad to be alive to love . . .
(2 September 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander