March 10: Dam, Darrell Bourque, "Lincoln in New Orleans, 1831"

I came home to a wall of slush and ice in my driveway.  My wife had already moved a good portion of it, but there was literally a dam of heavy, wet snow to clear.  As I swore, cursed, and grunted with my shovel, I kept asking myself, "Why do I love this place?"  It almost made me wish for an eternal winter.  No more snow, just enough cold to keep things from melting.

Well, I'm tired, sore, and hungry.  Ready for bed.  I'm done for the day.

Another night, another poem.

Saint Marty has to go make his daughter some Ramen noodles now.

Lincoln in New Orleans, 1831

by: Darrell Bourque

When he arrived that year he had to walk
a mile or so on flatboats to reach the shore.
He had poled and floated here, watched hawks
circling overhead on lazy afternoons, still bore

the scar he’d gotten years before when he chased
and fought off seven fugitive slaves who tried to rob him
and his measly crew near Baton Rouge. He pasted

some home remedy on the gash and then stemmed
the blood with some cloth he had on board. It lasted
all his life, this scar over his right eye but it hemmed

in nothing. What really lasted was the chatter and talk
around Maspero’s Exchange where one mulatto girl more
was trotted and pinched, undressed while buyers gawked
and ciphered for the lowest price they could get for her.