Born of a strong voice
and squeeze box, the ‘la-la’; a gumbo
left to simmer on the bayou
from Saturday evening until Sunday morn
when you go to sing other hymns.

There aren’t any mansions here,
not even able to season their harricots;
still the bon temps rouler. Cryptic
tunes from out the swamps, passed down
from father to son, with only eyes
and ears to hold those sacred psalms
of the moss.
.                            They took them away
to a thousand faceless dancehalls;
it’s fathers only child, brought up
on the crawfish circuit, harricot became zarrico.

Boozoo and Clifton
played it zodico, speaking
a stranger language, but the people understood
when the bands flame spread across the floor
and tore the roof off the roadhouse;
the joyous approval of fellow travelers
on the zydico road.

Heading back to Baltimore, by dawn
from Opelousas
I can still hear the furious rhythm
pouring out across the sky
a spinning cajun mantra:
.                fiddle                 voice                       guitar
.                               drum                    bass
.                                          accordion
bidding me to come
and dance, return here
to ask the question
in this primal stomp of ecstasy:
Does it really matter
if your beans aren’t salie
when Mamou is playing at Slim’s Y-Ki-Ki ?

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