My lover lies in the bend of the river far from where I left behind what I thought
was an unquestionable reality. Here I am in her confused romance where her
streets of North and South run East to West. And her sun’s daylight banks West
to East in only the female fickle which is she. But this love needs not a compass
for there is only one direction for me. It is here.
Here where she will muddle your drinks and sensations to the point where only
you can understand how the word Creole and the word Italian can be together
plated for repast.
It is with her where the music note hangs very long with her living, and her dead
in one endless parade of joyful noise.
She is not for everyone but if you accept her kiss she will cling to your heart like
sweet beignet dust.
Mother nature tried to divorce us. She sent her devil daughter to flood me with
doubt, to reject my fidelity but I was too smart or too dumb to drown in
distrust. I float with ardor in her passion.
I was not born her lover but surely my soul was. And when I die I will become
her soil and I will never leave her. I will always have a loving home.
—Eliot Kamenitz
