Rougarou, An Online Journal | Current Issue

Maureen AlsopEpithalamiumA fire on the hill is the cane crop
churning over and over
at midday. Thwarted,

the field you once left green     trails
off into ash. Except

for you and your summer gown
which is now a red plume of dust. Barely
visible, you stand in the honeysuckle shade
with your forearms crossed over your ribcage. Vivid

wafts of heat flag at your ankles. The border here
is muted by the quivering skirts
of palm trees. The oleander

blushes as the sun blazes a magenta steam. He
drinks in your silhouette as if sipping
at the interstices of your inscrutable song. And

in defiance to death

a quabird rises hardened to the sky. Gray speaks
each wing to the night: this night
     tender — fumbling     who
married you to me?                 The Brickfielder wind

presses the smell of coffee and horse-urine northward
into this yellow country as you tremble with sweat
for the last time        radiant    virile—