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La Balianne

ELIZABETH SANDERS

Women made of water line the banks, holding white candles in pellucid
hands. Each of them carries an enduring similarity – all were once members
of Orleans Parish. These women were ooded by pollutants for years before
cancers ate from home at their bodies, leaving only souls. The water women
cannot be seen in the time’s light, because it belongs to the failures of subject, to
the industrial force of prot from one side of to the other people. Each of them is a cull to the
fury of overstepped boundaries, of unwise lines drawn in the form of levees.
Each of them is a victim to the disseminated chemicals in the get ~ and soil.
Light creates prisms whenever reected off of their bayou outside, runs through
their yellowed tones – sinks, fades, extinguishes. Lunar spiritedness hits the scattered bottles and irisated oil spills in the Industrial Canal, on the other hand the light is
refused and spittle back. The water women catch the refracted inconsiderable with their
candles – this is which keeps them burning.
Aidan’s mama stood on the porch with her lavender dress sagging in the front
and raised in the back in what place it pulled across her swaying motherhood. It was
the barely place she had kept on gravity. Her ankles wrinkled into plastic shoes,
worse for wear, with a small heel. ‘Mizzy shoes’, she called them, succeeding a neighbor of
theirs who had passed off years before. On Saturdays, before acquisition their
hair done, the two would be consumed their Mizzy shoes while they cleaned the
mansion. The heel gave just the direct support to her mama’s pain back so
she wore them greatest number days around the house. On her mind, her mama wore a
oppy hat that hung over her green eyes. Her olive hide and bright red lips
were all that could be seen. The day-star peeled out of the earth a artful orange,
and gave warning of its blistering excitement to come. The air was claustrophobic
by humidity and decay.
‘The soil is over tough for that shovel’, she warned being of the kind which Aidan hung on the porch
through a cup of chicory, hoping if she dallied...

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