for Marcia Ball

You radiate
off those eighty-eights
like a mojo priestess
or shotgun preacher;

your nails draw red
from the white and black,
clicking out the hours
we soak our beans.

A ragtime girl, tough
as the beer soaked boogie
you sweat, stopping
the room in its track

when you hit the stage;
they can follow your recipie
but it wouldn’t taste
the same, lacking the bite

of free advice, ‘Go ‘head
boy, make that mistake,
just don’t do it twice;
cook the beans until they’re creamy,

but whole, and the rice
for eighteen minutes
while they cool,
then gently season

with equal parts of the trinity,
a ham bone, romance,
and a dash of sorrow doubled
by spirituality,

bring it to a slow boil
over a low burn then serve’
while it’s seething and absorbing
the flavor of New Orleans.

Some Other Kind Of Index