Inception of Melancholy

From Oklahoma in our pale Buick
we rode beside moss trees to the broken
side of New Orleans where it rained
every day even when the sun was shining.
The sky was meaningless.

We visited cemeteries with graves on top
of the ground, in lopsided rows,
Hurricane Betsy blew every window, every building.

The elementary school without windows held me inside

afraid of lunch, afraid of recess.

We checked in at the First Christian Church,
didn’t find anyone so we unpacked
at a yellow green brick duplex half a home.
I put the boxes on half a bed and became half a girl,
a weekend siteseer of Jackson Square, where
every open door spilled dancing ladies,
and rain soaked the moonless night.