by Robert L. Ferrier09 Sep 2014
Old Mama wades the murky soup
one hand clutching a sodden loaf
the other pushing a floating door
her drowned husband stretched full length
as if he was only napping
all the way to Charity Hospital.
She marches in prideful slow motion
wearing her beads of sweat
stepping out to internal rhythms.
She’d prayed for help
but the angels were tardy
those noisy black choppers
flying over to what’s left of Ninth Ward
roofs stewing like dumplings in stock
rescuers reeling down redemption
then ascending on hooked thin lines
plucking up the lucky ones
from sanctuary of their attics
while Old Mama slogs uncharted flows
black in brown under blue.