It's Still Life

I should’ve looked up the word “Krewe” before grabbing a pen. I wrote, then looked up the word, and realised I’d written something that didn’t at all suit Miz Quickly’s prompts. C’est la vie.

Mardi Gras 1968

I knew a girl
who wore a cross
around her neck.
Hand-carved. Opal.
It had fire
that hypnotised.
You’d lose yourself
in it if you stared
too long. It was
a shock of colour.

My mother woke me
one morning. She said
that girl had thrown
herself from a window.
From a hotel.
In New Orleans.
That she’d burst open
like a plump bladder
when the ground
stopped her falling.

Apparently people drifted
around her. For a look.
Someone said that they
recognised a lung. And
something else had
stuck to the steps.
The rest of her settled
into the bare noises
and sequinned parades
of Mardi Gras.

Mother said it was juju.
I heard she was drunk.

written for Miz Quickly’s “Madrid Gras”. Instructions: Play it straight or play it kinky. Invent your own version of the parade. Maybe even make up your own Krewe. What’s your thing? What do you throw to the crowd? Or would you prefer to be on the receiving end? Talk about the sidewalk. The sounds, or the smells.